Watchers
by surrealgreen
Summary: Dean goes to Hell and Sam makes a choice. With new powers and a new destiny, can Sam save his brother? How will the brothers deal with the repercussions of Sam's choice? A trip to Hell tests both brothers and introduces new enemies. AU, wingfic.
1. Prologue: Miles to Go

Miles To Go

Okay, this is just a little short piece intended to be a kind of prologue for a series I have in mind. This is set in AHBL. This is what Sam experienced—and forgot—when he was dead. Let me know what you think.

Warnings: None, really. I don't think there's anything socking or sexy or spoilery in here.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I do not own Sam or Dean. If I did own Sam or Dean, I'd probably be way too distracted to write :3 .

He didn't hurt anymore. That was the first thing Sam noticed as he lay quietly. He didn't hurt anymore.

The burning, blaring pain in his back was gone, and the wrenching ache in his shoulder, and the thousand other little hurts. He didn't hurt anymore.

In fact, he felt the best he'd felt in a long time. The aching hunger he'd never really noticed had disappeared and so had the heavy-headed sleepiness and the headache that never quite went away anymore—the results of grieve and anxiety and crippling, painful visions. He couldn't remember ever feeling so good, even when Jess was alive and life was simpler.

Sam warily cracked an eyelid, not sure what to expect. He couldn't see much. It was misty all around, leaving the world soft and featureless. But he wasn't afraid. He knew he should have been, waking up not knowing where he was or how he got there (again); but he wasn't.

The air smelled sweet and the mist was light and breezy rather than the dark, ominous fog he was far more used to. The ground (floor?) underneath his back was smooth and cool. He sat up, enjoying the pull and flex of muscles that weren't sore or cramped or torn for once. Sam stood, stretched his long frame, and breathed deeply the fragrant air.

It was more than just his physical pain that was gone, Sam realized as he took a few cautious steps forward. The anger and rage and fear and self-loathing and terrible, terrible grief he'd had for so long were gone as well. He felt—calm. As he walked through the mist he marveled at the truly serene feeling that blanketed his weary soul. He'd never felt like this before, not even in the peaceful morning hours with sweet dreams waiting for him and Jess in his arms, not even with a hunt successfully ended and Dean watching over him.

The mist thinned and he found himself in a forest. A deep, deep wood with ancient trees grown thick and tall and he was reminded of stories where trees had true power and even sentience, the kind of trees long since sacrificed to man's hubris and greed. Sam never really felt his height despite the fact that he towered over other people, but he hadn't felt _small_ for a long time, either. These trees made him feel small, minute. They had trunks that were smooth and creamy and thick, blue-green foliage high above. They seemed to almost glow in the mist and Sam was tempted to just wander through the wood and see what he could find.

The woods were so very, very still. Not the macabre stillness of the grave, but a peaceful stillness that was full of life. A part of him wanted to stay here forever.

"_Sam_."

The soft, sweet voice came from behind him. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat—he knew that voice. He turned.

"Jess."

There she was, as beautiful as ever. He long blond hair flowed freely and her beautiful eyes shown kindly at him. She wore a long white dress and looked so pure, pristine. Sam had begun to wonder if his memories of Jessica had been softened by grief, but no; she was just as perfect as he remembered. There was a light around her, so subtle he had not noticed it at first in the pale mist.

"Jess, oh my God." Sam wanted to run over and hug her, but something about her seemed so distant, so perfect, like freshly fallen snow, that he could not make himself break the stillness lest he leave footprints. Jess smiled kindly.

"_Its been a while, Sam_." Her voice was so melodic that even mundane phrases sounded like a song.

"Where…where are we? Am I…dead?" Sam's quick mind put two and two together.

"_Yes, and at the same time no. This is a place of waiting_."

"Waiting for what?" Sam was confused and troubled. Mostly, he was troubled by the fact the he didn't seem to feel great joy or sorrow—he should be running toward Jess, kissing and hugging her and crying like a fool. He should be worrying himself sick about Dean. Instead, he felt that same tranquility. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't regret it. He needed the moment of piece.

"_You're no longer alive, but today is not your day to die. You can't go back without help, but you cannot go forward before your time—whenever that might be_." Jess's reactions were wrong as well. She had been beautiful and smart and wise beyond her years, but never like this. This Jess gave off the feeling of a sage or an…an angel.

"What does that mean? When is my day? Are you an angel?"

"_So many questions, Sam; always so many questions. It's a good quality_," Jess stopped for a moment, looking down at her clasped hands and gathering her thoughts before looking Sam in the eye again.

"_Yes, Sam. I am an angel_."

"But that's not possible. Humans cannot be angels."

"_And angels cannot be human. They are two mutually exclusive states of being, but not without the opportunity for change. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, but it can be converted into energy. It is much the same with humans and angels. One cannot be both, but can become either. After I died I was given a choice. This was my decision_." There was something like regret in her face, but it was a cool, distant regret. Distant like all of the other emotions she'd shown.

"You're different."

"_Yes—that is what it means to become an angel. To give up that which makes us human_."

"And angels can't love." Grief lapped at the edges of his calm.

"_Not the way humans do. Nor can they hate or grieve or fear the way humans do. For every gain there must be sacrifice. This is balance_."

Sam felt his grief deepen, but aloofly. Whatever it was about this place that had given him peace was still hard at work.

"_Sam, there is not much time. You have other questions_."

Sam closed his eyes and collected himself. It was far easier than is should have been.

"What do you mean 'today was not my day'—for that matter 'whenever that might be'. If you don't know when my time is, then how do you know its not today?"

"_Everyone has a day to die. Today is not your day. But it is more than destiny that is responsible for choosing a day—it is you, and others around you. People make decisions every day that affect their lives and the lives of others. They save lives and they take them. Today you made the decision to spare Jake's life; he made the decision to take yours. But your brother made another decision. His decision keeps this from being your day_."

"How could he possibly…"

"_That does not matter at this moment. By making the decision, he has taken it out of your hands_."

Sam let that sink in for a moment, a dark suspicion forming in his mind.

"So you don't know when my day will be." It wasn't a question, but Jess treated it like one.

"_That will depend on your decision. I will see you again, a year from now, and you will have a choice to make. Only you can make that decision for yourself and your brother_."

"My brother—but how can I make life-and-death choices for him?"

"_For balance, because he makes that decision for you now_." Her voice seemed softer than it had been, quieter.

"What will my choices be?"

"_I cannot tell you that now. It will depend on the choices you make in the coming year_." Her voice was even quieter, like she was in the distance, though she had not moved. Sam noticed a darkness setting in and for the first time he noticed that he was cold.

"What if I don't want to go back now?"

"_You cannot go forward. You would be trapped here._"

Sam looked around the woods, the beautiful, peaceful woods. No fear, no pain, no anger or hate or grief. He was tempted, for the first time in his life, to give up. To stay here and hide. And it was oh, so tempting. But, no. He couldn't do that to Dean.

The darkness deepened and the woods faded around them, leaving only Jess, Sam, and the mist.

"Jess? What's happening?" Grief and fear and anger and self-loathing and pain lapped at his consciousness like high tide.

"_You're waking up Sam_. Wake up, Sam."

He hurt. That was the first thing Sam noticed as he sat up gasping. He hurt.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep But I have promises to keep 

_And miles to go before I sleep_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

_--Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_

_Robert Frost_


	2. Interlude:  Fated

Summary: Sam has a nightmare

Warning: Pretty AU—this is from my plot-bunny, not sure how it'll mesh with the season.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean or anything of any great value

This was going to be a lead in to the next story (a case-fic), but it had nothing to do with the case itself, so I decided to make it an interlude. The interlude follows my long plot-bunny and will hopefully fit into that plot.

Interlude: Fated

_No one knows what its like_

_To be the bad man_

_To be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes._

_No one knows what its like_

_To be hated_

_To be fated_

_To telling only lies._

_But my dreams _

_They aren't as empty,_

_As my conscience seems to be._

_--Behind Blue Eyes, by The Who_

Sam was watching the world like a spectator. No one seemed to see him, but he saw them all. He saw himself. Only the Sam Winchester he saw was not acting like him. He walked among the masses and didn't even seem to notice the way everyone quieted as he passed them. He didn't notice the awe and fear in their worshipful gazes, or even the few who outright kneeled. He seemed focused, calm, and cool as he made his way to the front of the large, airy room.

_When he reached the front he found himself at a beautiful, comfortable looking chair on a raised dais, facing the room and lording over like a throne. The Sam in his dream sat on the throne as if it were his right and gazed out over the now quiet crowd. To Dreaming-Sam he looked like a king lording over his courtiers. It seemed an apt comparison. _

_Sam-in-the-Dream looked grim, but determined. He glanced to his right to acknowledge a slim blonde figure before looking to another man at the back of the room. This man looked like he'd wandered in from the CIA. He wore a sharp black suit that did nothing to hide the bulge of a gun under his jacket, and dark glasses. At Sam-in-the-Dream's nod he put his hand to his ear and began giving orders into a radio. _

_When Sam-in-the-Dream had walked through the room the people had parted like they were the Red Sea. The swathe of empty floor remained, cutting a path to the throne. Dreaming-Sam watched the path with dread. He wasn't sure what was coming, but he knew it couldn't be good._

_Movement to the side of the path caught Dreaming-Sam's eye, and he turned his gaze. He couldn't believe what he saw. Mixed in with the 'courtiers' were the slim, shadowed figures of lamia, the sharp smiles of vampires, and reflective eyes of skin-walkers. As he looked closer the noticed that several of the courtiers themselves had the black, soulless eyes of the demon-possessed. If this were a king's court, it was a king of Hell: Sam-in-the-Dream. _

_Dreaming-Sam's attention was drawn back to the heavy double doors at the front of the room when they burst open. Four men in CIA-wear dragged a single man down the path. The man struggled, and cursed, and spit out wise-ass remarks. It was Dean._

_His brother looked rough. He was pale and haggard, with a week's growth of beard. His hair was longer than Dreaming-Sam ever remembered seeing it and greasy. There was a long-healed scar that traced a path from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth. Dean wore his trademark cocky smirk, but it did nothing to hide the despair and desperation in his eyes. Dreaming-Sam wanted to run to his brother, protect him, but Sam-in-the-Dream simply watched the guards drag Dean to him. _

_When they at last reached the dais, Dean stopped struggling. The smirk fell off his face and he looked at Sam-in-the-Dream with a strange mixture of loathing and grief. The look shook Dreaming-Sam to the core. Sam-in-the-Dream looked back with a sad, determined gaze._

"_So, Sammy, ya caught me. Whatcha gonna do with me?" Dean's voice was husky and it shook despite his ever-present bravado._

"_Dean," Sam-in-the-Dream spoke in a soft, kind voice, "you tried to kill me. Your own brother. Why?"_

"_You aren't my brother. Not anymore. You've been turned into an evil thing and it's my fault. My job to set it right," Dean stared back with a serious gaze._

_Dreaming-Sam wished that, just once, his dreams came with a synopsis of the backstory. What was going on? What had happed to the two of them? What did Dean mean? _

"_Dean, it doesn't have to be this way. I'm not evil. I'm still me. You're my brother, and I love you. Join me." The audience looked on raptly and more than a few leaned longingly towards the soft, sweet voice. Even Dean looked swayed. Dreaming-Sam felt nothing but dread._

_Sam-in-the-Dream got up from the throne and walked to Dean. He placed his hand on his brother's cheek in an intimate, loving gesture and looked his brother in the eye. Dreaming-Sam was struck by how much taller Sam-in-the-Dream looked than Dean. Sam had been taller than his brother for a long time, but rarely felt it. Dean was bigger than life and twice as strong, and had always been a figure of comfort for Sam. Now he looked small and shrunken and broken._

_It looked like Dean would join Sam-in-the-Dream. His hard gaze had softened and there was a hint of wonder in his face as he stared into his brother's eyes. But then his hand swung up, hard and fast. So fast that all Dreaming-Sam saw of the weapon was the glint of sharp metal. But not fast enough._

_Sam-in-the-Dream caught Dean's wrist when the weapon—a small, deadly sharp silver dagger--was millimeters from his heart. The he casually broke his brother's wrist. The guard behind Dean, upset that he'd missed the weapon, kicked the prisoner viciously in the back of the knees, forcing Dean to the floor._

_Sam-in-the-Dream had not moved his hand from his brother's face during all of this. Now he put his other hand on Dean's right cheek. He gazed down into his brother's face for a moment, and so did Dreaming-Sam. All of the despair was back, and so were the sorrow and grief and a good measure of guilt. Dean mouthed the words 'I'm sorry'_. For what, _Dreaming-Sam wondered. _

_Then Dreaming-Sam had no more time to ponder his brother's expression. With a sharp twist of his wrists Sam-in-the-Dream broke Dean's neck. For a moment his brother dangled from his hands like a rag doll. Then Sam-in-the-Dream let go and watched Dean slump bonelessly to the floor. Dreaming-Sam was screaming in his mind, but the screams remained silent._

_Sam-in-the-Dream walked back to his throne and sat down and leaned back in his throne heavily. For the first time Dreaming-Sam could look him(self) in the face. He expected to see demon-black eyes, or maybe even yellow. But he didn't. His own sad blue-green eyes stared vacantly through him. There were tears in those eyes and the sorrowful expression was all Sam. Sam-in-the-Dream was not possessed or being controlled or manipulated in any way. He was just Sam. It was the most horrifying and frightening part of the whole dream._

Sam sat up gasping in the small motel bed. His head throbbed, his lungs seared, and he was full of dread and guilt and grief. He couldn't shake the image of himself killing Dean. He looked to his right, across the darkened motel room to the twin bed situated nearest the door. Under the plaid cover, his brother slept peacefully. Hair short as ever, just enough stubble to pull off the 'bad-boy' look, no scar. Light came in from the window, artificial and slightly red. It gave an eerie cast to the room, making the faded dark wallpaper and battered furniture look slightly sinister.

Sam's gasping had eased, but he could still hear his heart pulsing in his ears and he was beginning to become cold as his sweaty skin was exposed to the cool night air. Tiredly, hyperaware of his aches, Sam pushed himself up and off the thing, bump mattress and stumbled over to the small bathroom. He pushed the door shut and turned on the light. It was a harsh, florescent light that burned his eyes and gave off a small, annoying buzzing noise. Sam looked at his own reflection in the small bathroom mirror and shivered, remembering the look in Sam-in-the-Dream's eyes.

At the moment he was pale. Long, lank bangs and cerulean circles shadowed his eyes, and his lips were pressed into a bloodless, grim line. His clenched jaw looked almost sharp enough to break the skin, and his hands wrapped so tightly around the cheap porcelain sink that his knuckles were white. He'd sweated through his thin tee shirt and it clung to his chest, back, and underarms in a clammy embrace.

His dream was _not _a vision. It was just a freaky-ass dream.

Sam turned the water on and watched it fizzle unevenly into the little sink. It didn't look very clean, but he put his hand under the water and leaned down to splash it on his face anyway. A few quick splashes did little to alleviate his worsening headache or the dread he felt, but it did help him wake up a bit. No way he was going back to sleep.

Sam stood back up and looked into the scarred little mirror again and it felt like his heart stopped. Behind him stood a pale distorted figure that flickered like an old movie. Sam gasped and moved to turn, but he knew he wouldn't be in time.

Sam sat up gasping in the small motel bed.


	3. Three Strange Days: The Fool

Okay, here's the next part of my story. I was going to stretch it out and make the events surrounding Dean's death the climax of the story, but I changed my mind. Instead of trying to stick with the current season and write a few case-stories, I'm going to jump right to the heart of the issue. This is the real beginning of the story, so I hope you like it. Let me know what you think, please.

Summary: Dean goes to Hell and Sam makes a choice

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean or Supernatural.

Warning: AU, Possible spoilers in the future, Sam POV, not a lot of Dean in this part

**Three Strange Days**

Part 1: The Fool

_For three strange days  
I had no obligations  
My mind was a blur  
I did not know what to do  
I think I lost myself  
When I lost my motivation  
Now I'm walking 'round the city  
Just waiting to come to  
For three strange..._

--Three Strange Days by School of Fish

_In the Tarot Deck, the Fool represents a new beginning, often of a journey. Upright it represents spontaneity, energy, innocence, naivete and optimism. Inversely, it represents foolish risk, impulsivity, rash action, and instability. _

* * *

_Dean was scared when they came for him, but he did not fight. Not that that stopped the hellhounds from chewing on him a bit. They tore at his leg and his arms and their sharp teeth were covered with stinging venom. They dragged his soul from the world forcefully and it hurt. But Dean would not let himself run, would not let himself struggle, would not let himself hesitate. He did this for _Sam. That was all that mattered. 

_The trip to Hell was quick—quicker than he'd expected. He'd expected some kind of journey, but one moment he was on Earth, dying, and the next he was in Hell. And there were no chains or fire or little imps poking him with pitchforks. Just a never-ending sea of mind-numbing Despair._

* * *

That bastard drugged me. He drugged me!

I understood why he did it. Scratch that; I didn't _understand_ why, but I did _know _why. He didn't want me to see him die. Didn't want me to see him scared, see him weak. Didn't want me to endanger my own life trying to stop it.

And that was the heart of the issue. I don't know why he thought my life was so much more valuable than his own. I'm the one who always needed looking after. I'm the one who may or may not turn evil. I'm the one who was responsible for Mom's death, Jess's death—Hell, in a way, even Dad's death. I _was _driving the night of the crash that nearly killed Dean. And yet Dean had sold his soul to save my life.

And now I would be responsible for Dean's death, too—if I wasn't already. I wasn't sure how long I had been out. One minute I was earnestly explaining to Dean my plan (okay, it wasn't much of a plan—just shoot anything that comes to take Dean with the colt—but at least it was something) and the next I was out like a light. Which explains why the sneaky bastard didn't arguing with me. I thought he was finally seeing sense, but he just knew that I'd be out soon.

When I woke up, I was alone with the keys to the impala and a goodbye note I hadn't bothered to read yet. I wouldn't need to read it if I got there in time to stop Dean from dying. It was still a few minutes until midnight, and I wasn't far now. I knew exactly where Dean was going. That same damned crossroads where he made the deal. He'd gone to meet his fate. Even though I knew he was terrified, he wouldn't even try to escape the deal because he was too worried about what would happen to me. _Damn it!_

The purring of the impala was soothing to me as I raced towards the crossroads. Despite the fact that the road was narrow and paved with gravel, the car never swerved or faltered. I doubted I'd ever love her the way Dean did, but I had come to appreciate her over the last couple of years. It was more than the powerful engine that Dean loved; he loved the memories. The impala was the closest thing we'd ever had to a home growing up, a constant. And we'd had far too few constants in our lives.

I didn't know if I could keep her without Dean. I knew he wanted me to, but I wasn't sure I could face the impala knowing that Dean would never sit behind her wheel again; not sure I could listen to his tapes without missing his voice singing along. I didn't know how I could do _anything_ without Dean. Even when I was at Stanford, Dean was a presence in my life. We didn't always get along or even talk, but I had never had a doubt in my mind that if I needed him, Dean would be there. Facing the world without him was just too damn scary. _Damn_. There's that word again. I must have been a little giddy to find it so funny how that word kept coming up.

The first thing I saw when I reached the crossroads was Dean's body, lying motionless. Lifeless. I was too late.

But I _couldn't_ be too late. I wouldn't accept it. Dean brought me back, he couldn't die now. He couldn't bring me back just to leave me alone. He couldn't.

I ran to his body hoping to find myself wrong. He wasn't breathing, but he was still warm. He looked so peaceful. It was easy to forget how pretty Dean really was. I mean, he always looked handsome (and knew it), but that smirk he wore disguised how full his mouth is, how fine his bone structure. How large and soulful his eyes were. On the rare occasion he was serious, he looked like an angel. Now he looked like a sleeping angel.

I shook him, trying to wake him up. He couldn't be dead, he didn't _look_ dead. Something must have happened. Oh God, please, my brother couldn't be dead! I was so distraught that I ignored the world around me, didn't even notice the tears streaming down my face. I wouldn't have been ashamed of them if I had.

"So sweet, Sam."

Her voice snapped me out of my grief-induced daze. Ruby. The demon who had promised to help me save Dean. Who had spent the last year manipulating me shamelessly. Who had lied. I wondered if she had ever had any intention of helping me save Dean.

Anger is an easier emotion to handle than grief. When you're angry, you can do something about it, punish someone. There's not much you can do about grief but try and ride it out. I suppose that's why people need someone to blame when bad things happen. Ruby made herself a convenient target for me.

I turned to face her, drawing the colt in one smooth motion. So many times over the past year I'd been tempted to shoot her, but she always held me off with her promises, smooth as a snake-oil salesman. She was out of time.

"You might not want to do that just yet."

I wasn't surprised that she didn't show any fear. Over the past year I'd seen her smug and superior and angry, but never even the slightest hint of fear. Demons were so prideful that they'd rather die than give their enemy the satisfaction of seeing them weak.

"Really? Because I think I do." My anger made my voice a sharp steel dagger that I tried to stab her with. Still, she showed no reaction.

"I said I could help you save your brother, Sam, not stop the deal from happening in the first place. The contract was binding, and your brother entered into it of his own free will. No stopping that. But now that he's gone to Hell, he's fulfilled his part of the bargain. No saying that he has to _stay_ there. I can help you get him out. Hell, I can even help you destroy the demon who wanted his soul so _damn_ bad." She smiled that Cheshire smile I'd come to hate so much.

The wiser part of my mind told me to just shoot her. Shoot her now, before she could lie to me again. I knew I couldn't trust her, and any bargain I made with her would be foolish. But I was running low on options and desperate.

"How do I save my brother! Tell me now, or die!"

"Not this time, Sammy. I'm tired of you threatening to kill me. You need me—I'm the only way you can save Dean. So here's how its gonna be. You do wh—"

She cut off mid-word as if someone had muted her. But she wasn't just muted. She was still, frozen. The crickets that had been singing were silent, and the wind didn't even blow. It was as is the whole world had stopped.

"_Sam"_

I turned to seek the source of the voice behind me, gun held out, and there she was. Beautiful, with her long hair flowing and her white dress moving softly in a wind that I could not feel. She smiled kindly at me.

"Jess!"

I felt ashamed of myself all of the sudden. I lowered the gun I had been holding defensively on her, and felt my anger dissipate under the weight of my guilt. And yet she did not look angry or accusatory. Just serene and a bit sad.

"_Do you remember the last time we talked?"_

And all of the sudden I did. Like a dream that I'd forgotten, the memory of that conversation came back to me suddenly and forcefully. Jess was an angel, and I needed to make a decision.

"Yes." There were so many things I wanted to say, so much I wanted to ask her. Last time I'd been soothed by that place, unable to really _feel_. This time was so different. I felt so many things, all at once. But I couldn't let myself be distracted from my brother.

"_Sam, I have come to offer you three options. You must make a choice not only for yourself, but for Dean."_

I steeled myself. I was terrified, but also amazed and hopeful. There might be a way to save Dean without resorting to allowing Ruby to control me, manipulate me, or turn me darkside. I just wasn't sure Dean would ever forgive me if I made the wrong choice.

"_The first option is simple. You may choose for me to do nothing; you can continue on as if this conversation never happened. In fact, you won't even remember it. You may follow Ruby, or not, as you will."_

"And what happens to Dean if I do that? Will Ruby's plan work?"

"_I cannot tell you that. There are too many possible paths if you choose that future. I can only tell you that you have already seen some of these paths."_

My nightmares…the nightmares I'd been working so hard to forget. The nightmares where Dean and I were enemies and I was some kind of evil emperor. They didn't all end with me turning darkside, but most of them did. And now that I thought about it, Ruby was in every one of those dreams, advising and supporting me.

"What are my other options?"

"_Your second option is my gift to you, if you want it. It is the gift of normality. You will no longer be a part of the supernatural world. You can return to Stanford. You won't remember the supernatural world, and no one will remember you were ever a part of it. I will have died in an accidental fire like your mother, your father from a stroke, your brother from a heart condition. Demons will not come looking for you, nor will the law. You can marry, have children, and live with the innocence and sense of safety you have so longed for."_

It was more tempting than I like to remember. Since I was a child I had wished for normality and safety. I wanted to live in a nice house with a dog; have people in my life who weren't constantly putting themselves at risk; and be able to be what I wanted to be. No more hunting, no more moving, no more constant fear. It wouldn't be a painless life, but it would certainly be less painful. I wouldn't bear the guilt for Jess's death or Dad's or Mom's or Dean's. That alone was tempting. Guilt is a heavy burden to bear. But forgetting what really happened to them would be a betrayal. I couldn't cheapen their deaths to spare myself some pain.

"And the third option?"

"_Do you know what the Nephilim are?"_

"Nephilim are abominations. The progeny of angels and humans. They have the souls of humans, but the powers of …"

The powers of angels. And demons were fallen angels. They had the power to move things with their minds, or read minds, or control thoughts, to kill with a touch, or sometimes even see the future. Powers like those the psychic children had; powers like I had. Oh my God, I really was a monster.

"_Nephilim were never meant to exist, but they do. And like their parents, some Nephilim have mated with humans and had offspring. Over the millennia their bloodlines have thinned. Most of their progeny living today have few powers. Like your friend, Missouri."_

I was surprised at that, but it made sense. Biology was never my strong suit, but I knew that a bloodline could become diluted as it was passed on. As long as there was no inbreeding, recessive or harmful traits could be lost or overcome by stronger genes, and only pop up randomly.

"And the children and I?"

"_Every so often a bloodline maintains its strength. Progeny breed with other progeny, or the angel that fathered the line was powerful indeed. These bloodlines possess the potential to create a child that has the powers of the Nephilim. You are one such child."_

"Shouldn't Dean be the same way then?"

"_Genetics really isn't your strong suit," _Jess laughed playfully, and for a minute it was like the last two years hadn't happened. _"Half of your genetic code comes from your mother; half from your father. Half of your mother's genetic code came from her mother, the other half from her father. It was you're mother's father's line that carried the Nephilim blood. You and your brother both had a 25 chance of inheriting the genes from that line. You simply inherited more than Dean did."_

"What does this have to do with my third option?" I had an ominous feeling about it.

"_Because you are of the Nephilim bloodline, I can awaken all of your Nephilim genes. You will become a true Nephilim, not just half."_

"What would that mean?"

"_You would become immortal. Those powers you despise so much would become stronger."_

"No, those powers are gone. I haven't had a vision since the demon died," I denied. I had been more than happy to see the last of the visions and I didn't want them back.

"_They are not gone, just dormant. I know you thought the demon gave you those powers, but they were always yours. Azazel didn't have the power to give you visions—he could force them into activity, but he couldn't create them. They're still there, beneath the surface of you. If you become Nephilim, you will open a door you cannot close again."_

Why would she even offer such a thing to me? What did this mean?

"_If you choose to become Nephilim, it is a hard road; far harder than any other. The Nephilim who survive have been given a difficult burden; they are Watchers, guardians of Earth."_

"I've never seen any Nephilim before," I objected. I hadn't; the only people I'd seen guarding the Earth from evil were hunters like myself.

"_And because you have not seen them, they do not exist?"_

I remembered Dean once saying that he didn't believe in angels because he had never seen one, and yet one stood before me now.

"_The world is a large place, and most Nephilim choose to protect a specific area. Perhaps you have simply never wandered into Nephilim territory; perhaps you have seen Nephilim and not recognized them. They discovered many centuries ago that they were safer if they went unnoticed."_

"Safer?"

"_From demons who would turn them into soldiers for a war they don't want to fight; from humans who would worship them as false gods. Even as a human of a Nephilim bloodline you've already faced some such danger. Choosing the path of the Nephilim is not without rewards, however."_

My disbelief must have shown on my face. She smiled a gentle, chiding smile.

"_If you choose the path of the Nephilim, you choose that path for Dean as well."_

I perked up immediately. Dean. Was this how I could save him?

"You'll pull him out of Hell?" My voice was eager.

"_I cannot. As Ruby said, _he_ made the deal. I cannot break it. But _you_ can save him. As a Nephilim you can travel to Hell and lead him out."_

"How?"

"_There is a path that no human can follow. Nephilim can. It will lead you to Hell. But there are no guarantees. Once there, you will have three days to find your brother and lead him from Hell. After three days in Hell, a Nephilim is trapped there forever."_

I closed my eyes. Could I do it? Could I save Dean in three days? Would Dean ever forgive me if I turned both of us into Nephilim? He had been so tired of hunting lately.

I knew what Dean would say. He would tell me to choose door number two. To go to the life I'd dreamt of since second grade, when I realized that not everyone moved every two months and nobody else really believed in monsters. He would want me to be happy, even if it meant he would burn in Hell for all eternity.

I was tempted to choose the first option instead, but that would mean trusting Ruby. I couldn't shake the memory of my horrible, prophetic dreams. I didn't know how believing Ruby would bring me to that point. Maybe it wouldn't—forewarned is forearmed, after all. But the idea of being enemies with Dean terrified me. Even if I managed to pull him out of Hell, it would destroy him to have to kill me; more horrifying, if my dreams were right it _wouldn't_ destroy _me_ to kill him.

What really worried me was how tempting it was to choose that option, not despite the fact that I might eventually become some kind of dark emperor, but because of it. I could imagine the good I could do if I was in control of all the dark supernatural things out there. I could protect people, keep innocents from being victimized. I could take charge. It didn't have to turn out as bad as in my dreams. Then it hit me.

"You were in my dreams. The pale figure when I thought I had woken up—I never saw you clearly."

"_You have been suppressing your powers with your denial, and Ruby has been feeding on them. I simply helped unblock them for a few minutes."_

"What do you mean feeding off of them!?"

"_You are powerful, Sam. You give off energy, more than you know what to do with. Ruby has been siphoning off energy that energy, helping to suppress your powers."_

Suppressing my powers—but not to help me. She was just interested in helping herself; getting more powerful, and making sure I didn't have any visions that would take me out from under her control. A wave of righteous anger swept me and I had to fight to not turn and shoot Ruby while she was helpless and unable to manipulate me. If it had been anyone other than Jess before me, I might have done just that. But being in front of Jess made me ignore my baser instincts.

And so I was left with three choices—to keep the status quo and face a future as a possible evil dictator; to leave it all behind and live the life I had always wanted; or to commit both myself and Dean to an eternity of fighting evil, powers intact.

"Will Dean have powers?" I asked as it occurred to me.

"_Yes, though it may take longer for them to appear."_

Wouldn't he love that? Dean was the least supernatural person I knew, which was saying a lot considering how intertwined he was with the supernatural world. Would he ever, ever forgive me if I turned him into a supernatural creature?

"_Sam, I'm sorry. There is no more time. You must choose now."_

She really did look sorry, but also firm. I had no more time to think. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"I choose option three."

_

* * *

__Dean floated in the mindless sea of Despair, losing bits of himself but somehow remaining whole. There was no pain, but there also was no pleasure. No joy, no humor, no hope. It was all endless nothingness. Dean was not aware of the other souls around him or the demons who watched him suffer and laughed._

_A sudden pain ripped through him and broke him from his lethargy. He arced and curled his back and sought a way to escape the pain, but it was coming from inside; inescapable. His sudden scream created waves in the glassy sea of Despair._

* * *

There was a resounding crack as if the world had split open and sudden pain starting in my back and racing through my entire body. I tumbled gracelessly to my knees, arcing over. The pain was incredible, worse than I had ever felt before, worse than I can describe. There was the nauseating sound of bones cracking and muscles and organs shifting and I briefly wondered if this was anything like what shape-shifters felt when they shifted. If so, they can hardly be blamed for their madness; the pain alone was enough to make one lose their mind.

It is impossible to keep track of time in the midst of such pain. No matter how brief it is, it always feels like eternity, and I lack the words to explain what I felt at that moment. The pain culminated with a ripping sound as my back tore open and I suddenly had muscles I had never had before.

When it ended I found myself crouching on the ground, bent near in double, staring at my white-knuckled fist. They were my hands, the same as always, and yet they weren't. My hands are large—thank God; how weird would I look with small hands?—but not bulky. I have slender palms and long fingers. They are hands capable of combat, but made for more scholarly pursuits. They looked exactly the same, and yet completely different. Somehow they appeared more graceful and elegant than they ever had before. The skin of my hands and forearms was the same and yet different as well. It was the same pale skin that easily turns golden-brown in the sun, and yet it was finer, smoother. I sat up and my muscles shifted and it was so strange. I seemed to have lost a bit of the bulk I had added over the last couple of years, but none of the muscles and certainly none of my length. A hand went to my face and it felt the same, but my hair was silkier than I ever remembered it being. And then there was my back.

As I moved, my back shifted and pulled strangely and the and it felt as if I'd sprung two new limbs in my back. I twisted my head to look behind me and found myself staring at a mass of feathers. I had grown wings. Two large, gracefully arched wings. They appeared black at first, but the light glinted off of golden-copper highlights here and there. The long feathers at the tip looked darker, as if my dark gold wings had been dipped in black ink. I tried to flex one.

It felt natural and unnatural at the same time. I instinctively knew how to flex and bend and stretch the wing, but was clumsy as a babe learning to walk. I tried to stand and my balance was off. The wings were lighter than I would have expected given their size, but still much heavier than I was used to bearing, and my center of gravity had changed to accommodate them. I started to fall and my wings flapped instinctively, lifting me off the ground just an inch. With an effort I slowed my wings and landed awkwardly.

I was amazed and awed and royally freaked out. I suppose I should have expected something like this, but I hadn't. I turned my gaze to Jess and was amazed yet again.

Before Jess had looked beautiful and pure, but still more human than not. Now she was a blazing tower of light, with graceful white wings arcing away from her body, three of them to my two. She smiled gently at my amazing, like a parent whose child had just discovered his own hand for the first time.

I turned my gaze around the crossroads and found colors to be more vivid. The yellow of the yarrow flowers no longer looked faded and sad—they were bright and bold. I could see further and better, as well. There was an owl in the tree across the meadow, and a field mouse crouching warily in the yarrow. And then there was Ruby.

I could still see the attractive blonde the demon was housed in, but I could also see the demon. A mass of black mist superimposed on the blonde showed Ruby's true self. The mist had form—more than I'd ever seen in an un-housed demon. It was shaped in the silhouette of a woman with long hair and a long dress and long talons and three long wings that were sinister and ragged.

I looked back at Jess and she must have seen the question in my gaze.

"_You can see her true form now. You will be able to see so many things, not all of them pleasant. I am sorry for the pain it may cause you, but once you've opened your eyes you cannot close them."_

I nodded, distracted by the beauty and purity of her voice. It had melodic undercurrents that I had not heard before, and she sounded as if she were singing.

"_I must leave soon, Sam. I wish I could stay with you; you have so much to learn. But I can't—you have to learn it on you own. And you have to save your brother quickly."_

"You said I could get to Hell—how?" I was once again all business.

"_Look behind me. There are three roads."_

And suddenly there were three roads where before there had just been a field. One of the roads was straight and narrow and over grown with twisting trees and thorns and brambles. One was straight and wide and smooth, without hills or valleys. The third was neither wide nor narrow, and was charmingly winding.

"_The narrow, difficult road leads to Heaven for those few who choose to walk it. The wide, easy road is the road to Hell, and it is open to any."_

"Where does the third road lead?" I couldn't suppress my natural curiosity.

"_You will have to find that out for yourself,"_ Jess smiled.

"Will the roads still be there once you are gone?"

"_The roads are inside you. Any time or place you look for them, you will find them." _Jess gave me a look full of regret. _"I must go now. I have given you all the help I can. Just remember, after you enter Hell you _must_ leave within three days, or you can never leave. Dean's three days have already started. Be careful down there, Sam. There are those who will want you for _who_ you are and those who will want you for _what_ you are, and none of them are your friends. Good luck, Sam."_

I had not seen many spirits go willingly to the other side, but when they did it was as if they entered a light and became the light before fading from sight. Jess disappeared the same way.

All of the sudden the night was alive with sound and motion.

"—at I tell, you to, when…" Ruby's voice trailed off as she noticed the change in me. For the first time ever, I heard the dark, discordant undertones to her voice. I also heard the winds and the movements of the little field mouse and the owl. I could smell the world around him, from Dean's fading scent to the scent of death coming from Ruby's host.

"WHAT THE HELL!" The sudden volume made me wince.

"WHO DID THIS?! WHO TURNED YOU!?" Ruby was not pleased, but her outrage only angered me.

"What business is it of yours? Mad because you can't control me anymore? Well guess what Ruby—I'm mad, too. And I'm short on time. So I want you to get the HELL out of here and never return. LEAVE!"

I unconsciously _pushed_ at Ruby the way I had pushed at the dresser locking me in Max Miller's closet months. She stumbled back and the demon inside the shell stuttered before dispersing. The blonde host collapsed like a puppet with the strings cut and the demon was gone—back to Hell, presumably. I'd exorcised her with a word. It was a thrilling, heady feeling—and a bit frightening.

I didn't have much time, but I couldn't just leave Dean's body in the crossroads, nor Ruby's dead host. Poor girl had probably been dead some time. Demons don't need healthy or even living hosts—they can maintain a damaged body indefinitely.

Luckily I wasn't too far away from Bobby. I bundled Dean into the back seat of the impala, covering his body with an extra blanket. I'm not ashamed that I cried a bit doing it.

I dragged Ruby's host out of sight of the road. I felt a bit guilty about it, but I couldn't bring myself to put her in the car with Dean.

As prepared as I had time to be, I pulled out my phone and called Bobby.

He had been waiting for my call.

"Sam! Where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm okay. Bobby, I need your help."

"Anything, Sam, you know that."

"I need you to come to the crossroads and get the impala. Dean's bo…Dean is in the back seat," I swallowed thickly, unable to refer to my brother as a body.

"Where are you going, Sam?" Bobby sounded alarmed, and understandably. He knew what Dean had done when he had been in my position.

"I need to you to watch over Dean's body for me, and to take care of Ruby's body. I exorcised her, she's hidden in the brush beside the road."

"Sam. Where. Are. You. Going. ?" Bobby repeated.

"I'm going to save my brother."

"Sam, I don't know what kind of crazy idea you've got in your head, but Dean wouldn't want you to get yourself hurt for him."

"I know, Bobby. But I have to do this. Please, just watch over Dean for me. Please."

"I don't know…I can't just keep him forever, Sam."

"Three days. Give me three days, Bobby. If I haven't succeeded by then, I never will. Bobby, _please_."

I put all of my need and desperation into that 'please' and Bobby couldn't tell me no. It was manipulative, I knew, but Bobby had always had a hard time saying no to me whether I was asking to look at his arcane tomes or just wanted a piece of candy, or was asking him to hide a body. Dean and I were like his own kids to Bobby; in Dean, he had a kid who shared his interest in the finer points of hunting and cars; in me one who shared his passion for research and interest in demonology.

"Dammit, Sam." It was a yes. A reluctant, unhappy yes, but a yes none-the-less.

"Thank you, Bobby."

I hung up the phone before he could argue with me anymore.

Taking a deep breath, I muttered a little prayer beneath my breath before turning to face the roads behind me. I walked towards the wide, easy road half expecting it to disappear from beneath me, but it didn't. Instead the crossroads and the impala disappeared and I found myself on a country road. There were flowers and plants growing jauntily beside the road, which was pleasantly flat. The road stretched off into a blue horizon.

I walked down the road for what felt like hours, but time was hard to judge because no matter how far I went the road didn't seem to change. I almost felt like I was standing still, and I began to worry about how much time was spent on the path. I considered trying my wings out, but was afraid that I would get lost if I stepped off the road.

I realized all of the sudden that the horizon seemed closer than it had before. The realization put new energy into my step and I hurried to what looked like the peak of a hill. It wasn't.

I walked up to the 'peak' and found myself at the edge of a cliff. The cliff face broke off in a straight line that stretched as far as the eye could see and went down in a vertical slope. I felt a bit dizzy looking down at the landscape far below. It was a desolate, bleak view. The ground was hard and red with sharp black rocks spiraling up out of the ground like knives. In the distance I saw the glint of still water and shadowy, twisting dark woods. A few structures dotted the landscape with ominous shadows, but were too far away to be seen clearly. I had arrived at Hell.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped off the cliff.


	4. Three Strange Days: The Ten of Swords

The next part of my story. The descriptions of Hell come from Wikipedia and my own imagination. Don't take them too seriously.

Summary: Sam has made it to Hell. Can he find Dean in time to save him?

Warnings: Totally AU from this point. Sam POV, not much Dean (there will be more in the next chapter). Descriptions of Hell. I was going for creepy and kind of scary (not sure I got it, but just warning you in case I did).

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam. I don't own Dean. I don't own much of anything.

Reviews make me happy :3

* * *

Three Strange Days:

The Ten of Swords

_I lay down for a while  
And I woke up on the ocean  
Floating on my back  
And staring at the gray  
It was completely still…_

_--Three Strange Days, by School of Fish_

_Upright, the ten of swords represents ruin, desolation, sorrow, and misfortune. Inversely, it represents an illusory release from affliction, or death and violence. was floating in a red sea under a red sky. The pain ripping through his back and echoing throughout his body would not let him slip back into his mindless daze, and he twisted at the pain._

_

* * *

__He was not alone. There were bodies floating around him, mindless strangers lying still as death—still as he had been moments before. He looked at the man nearest to him. An old black man, his face wrinkled and sad, eyes rheumy and glazed. H distant stir of pity for the man, but it faded quickly._

_He could remember nothing. He couldn't remember anything, just that he had been trying to save…something. It didn't seem important anymore. Nothing did. It was as if he'd just been born in the warm, thick liquid that embraced him._

_For a moment he flopped like a fish in the water, but the pain receded. He swam awkwardly, slowed by the unusual fluttering of his wings. The two long limbs were weak-muscled and weighed down by the liquid. He swam for what seemed like hours—but it was impossible to tell. The three burning hot suns in the red sky did not move at all. This was a place with no night, no shade, no rest, no renewal._

_Eventually he reached a rocky shore. It was as hard and red as the sky and sharp stones dug into his hands and his knees. The air was dry and suffocating. He was naked, covered only by the soggy red mess of feathery wings. A sound near him made him raise his head in curiosity._

_There were five creatures that might have, at one time, been men. They were tall and thin and shared a certain similarity, though they were not identical. Their faces were cruel and twisted, dominated by empty white eyes and sharp-toothed mouths. Their skin was as pale as a fish's belly and stretched so tight over hard, wiry muscle and bone that they almost appeared to have been flayed alive. Each caressed a weapon—knife, gun, whip—lovingly._

_One of the creatures walked forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. The creature smiled like a pirhana and pulled him forward. A small part of him screamed to resist the creature, to fight; but he couldn't see the point. He went willingly as the creatures guided him to a sharp, black citadel._

* * *

Most people would agree that stepping off a cliff is stupid crazy. It honestly didn't occur to me until I was falling. 

All of the sudden fingers of wind were whipping through may hair, against my face, and tangling my long limbs—all six of them. My heart started pounding and it got hard to breathe. Just as I began to feel the first tinges of sheer terror, my instincts took over.

My wings snapped out crisply (I would feel that later) and caught the wind. I slowed drastically. I tried flapping my wings a few times, which was awkward and strange, before I found a thermal and began to gently glide down. It's hard to describe the feeling of flying for the first time. There was the satisfying stretch of muscles and bone, the weightless feeling of floating, and the wind wrapping around me, around my wings, caressing my feathers. My wings were incredibly sensitive and it was a surprisingly sensuous feeling.

A part of me wanted to speed the process up with a dive, but I wasn't sure I could stop if I started. So I decided to get the lay of the land instead. It was flat and dry and red, broken by a few spiraling, spiky, shiny black stones that speared the sky and deep, yawning canyons that cracked jagged lines across the landscape. They were so deep they put the Grand Canyon to shame, so deep that I could see no bottom even from my vantage-point.

In the far distance was a red sea that reflected the red sky and a dark, twisted forest shadowed the horizon. I could see three citadels of sharp shiny spiraling towers, each separated by miles. There were probably more that I could not see. Hell was big, its own unique world, and not what I had expected. I didn't see any fires, any imps with pitchforks, any souls being tortured. In fact, I didn't see any movement whatsoever. Even the distant sea was still and lifeless. It was a surprisingly beautiful picture, but desolate, despairing.

Landing was apparently less instinctive than flying (gliding, anyway). I hit the ground hard, stumbling and fumbling to my hands and knees on the hard, unforgiving ground. I don't know if it was some quality of the land itself or just the enormity of my task settling on my shoulders, but I felt a wave of despair, kneeling there. Hell was so big. How would I ever find Dean?

I couldn't let myself lay there in despair no matter how much I wanted to, so I dragged myself to my feet and felt a wave of pain in my back. All the muscles I used for flying, both new and old, ached. I arched my back against the pain and felt a strange pulling in the muscle between my scapula, where my new wings had sprouted. My wings pulled and folded back into my skin. In a matter of seconds their weight had been redistributed inside my back. I could still feel them, inside my skin, but they were hidden.

I had read that a bird's wings are supposed to be hollow and flexible, and I wondered if all of my bones were now like a bird's. That would explain this strange sense of lightness I now had. I'd never flown before then, but climbing had always been one of the few tasks that I was better at than Dean, and I had long since gotten used to my own heft. It was less now. I wondered what hollow bones would mean for me besides flight. Were they more fragile than human bones? Would I be more vulnerable in a fight? Would they break easily? Then again, they hadn't broken during my less than graceful landing.

I reached my hand back and touch my scapula through the ragged tears my wings had left in my coat. The skin was tender, swollen and hot to the touch. There were two fine lines tracing the length of my scapula and I examined one line with my finger before pushing against it. The skin split and opened; it hurt like probing a fresh wound; I felt the tip of a feather tickle my finger. I winced and removed my hand.

So I could hide my wings—assuming, of course, that I could figure out how I had done it. I arched forward a bit and pushed with that muscle and felt my wings begin to slip out of my back. I arched back and they disappeared again. That would be useful.

No longer distracted by my wings (though they still ached), I cast about, trying to decide which direction I should go. Behind me was the flat, glassy face of the cliff, but Hell still stretched forever before me. I stared around me, waiting for inspiration, before I felt a strange heat in my pocket. I reached in and pulled out Dean's amulet.

I remembered waking up, hours before (how could it have been mere hours?) and finding the keys to the impala and the amulet on the pillow beside me where Dean had left me drugged and sleeping. I had shoved the amulet into my pocket and forgotten about it.

The amulet was giving off a gentle glow and swayed, even though there was no breeze. It begin to sway faster and shifted into a pendulum swing before suddenly stopping and freezing at a 45 degree angle, pointing off in the distance toward the nearest citadel. It pulsed once and then the glow faded and it dropped straight down.

The citadel was tall and imposing and sort of pretty in a cold, sci-fi castle kind of way. It was a few miles away; I could get there in no time. Assuming that it was where I should go. I was a little wary of trusting random omens and signs, but I had nothing else to go on. The amulet had never seemed magical before, but it had been around Dean's neck since I had given it to him, and it had seen him through thousands of dangerous situations and injuries. It felt like Dean, all warm and strong and protective, and so I decided to trust it. Just as I prepared to start jogging toward the citadel, the vision hit me.

**Dean, seated on a throne….pain…screaming, writhing figures….the pain/pleasure of a whip lash….pleasure…laughing, distorted faces….Dean's eyes so cold….fear…a tall, pale figure lording over a court….worship…blood mixing with white fluid and tears…grief…**

It was the first vision I'd had since Azazel had died. It hurt like ice-spikes driving into my eye-sockets, and I fell to my knees. For a moment I simply knelt there, waiting for the throbbing pain to ease. Even the least slightening of the pain was a relief. This vision had been different. Less coherent than the visions I'd had before, and, for once, it had shown me something I had wanted to see. Dean.

Jess had said that the powers were mine, that Azazel had simply forced them to the forefront. Perhaps that was why all my visions before had been related to the demon or the children. Perhaps now they would be more varied. Perhaps I could one day learn to control them. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

My vision had been too quick and jumbled to be easily understood, but Dean had been inside, not out under the blazing sky. It seemed that the amulet might have sent me in the right direction after all. I stumbled a bit from my headache, but kept moving toward the citadel.

* * *

_The citadel was disturbingly beautiful. Its dark walls were made of shiny black obsidian, sharp to the touch and carved into relief of hundreds of writhing forms. Some of the carvings showed ecstasy, others anguish. In most, it was difficult to tell the difference._

_He docilely followed the Gaunt Men. They walked confidently through the hallways, passing cowering forms that tried to stay in the shadows, out of their way. Some of the forms looked human, nearly naked men and women of pleasing form and cringing demeanor. Others looked like a mockery of humanity, and a handful had clearly never been human. The latter were the only denizens who did not shrink from the Gaunt Men. Instead they looked at him with covetous curiosity._

_He had expected to be taken to a tower or a great room, but instead he was dragged down stairs…and down, and down, and down. He was undeniably deep beneath the surface when he passed a set of windows that looked out on a yawning, dark cavern. Finally, they arrived at their destination._

_The great hall of black marble and obsidian was as darkly beautiful as the rest of the citadel had been, and crowded. He paid little attention to the figures writhing in the shadows, though. Instead he stared at the slender figure dominating the room._

_The figure sat in a throne, watching the court with amusement. It seemed happy to see him._

_"**I've been waiting for you. You're one of mine, you see. You're just like me. No matter how hard you try, it's never good enough. No matter what you do, you'll never be loved. You fail no matter what, and you're so tired of the guilt. So you lose yourself in faceless, nameless bodies**."_

_He still could remember nothing from his life, not even his name, but the words struck him to the core. They were true._

_"**But those days are over. I understand you, and you'll never be alone as long as you're by my side. Come. I name you Beloved**."_

_And so he went to the creature, sat at its right hand, and stared blankly at the court._

* * *

It was hard to keep track of how long it took me to reach the citadel. The land was so flat, except for the occasional stalagmite, that distance was difficult to gauge and the three burning suns didn't change their position at all. My watch had stopped working and how did time run in Hell, anyway? The three day rule indicated that time did pass, but how would I measure it? How much time did Dean have left? As usual, I had more questions than answers. 

Eventually I reached the structure. I was hot and so thirsty, but there was no relief. There was no breeze and the clouds were straggly and thin. The only shade came from the forbidding black rocks.

The citadel was hot on the outside, its shiny outer shell absorbing the heat from the suns, but pleasantly cool on the inside. I took a few moments to catch my breath. I was a bit surprised that it was so easy to enter the citadel. There were no guards or even a door.

Instead of a door, the citadel was breached with a graceful arch. A marble floor stretched smoothly out behind the arch. It was beautiful. The walls were carved with figures of men and women. The carvings were darkly erotic, with men and women and creatures that were enter-twined and writhing. The workmanship was exquisite, but they were disturbing as well.

I wandered for the halls for a few minutes before I encountered anyone. Then I almost literally ran into a woman. She was short and slender and curvy. Her curves were on display, for she only wore a few scraps of cloth. She was pretty in a completely normal kind of way that I had not expected, with long honey-blonde hair and big brown eyes and an average, forgettable face.

On the woman's ankles there was a pair of shackles. I came to the sickening realization that the shackles were not just resting on her ankles, but held there by cruel spikes driving deep into flesh and bone. A similar pair of shackles was attached to her wrists. The wounds around the spike were pale and bloodless, and she walked smoothly, as if used to the pain.

When she saw me, she stopped and her eyes widened. She stared at me with a mixture of wonder and pity and breathed "You're alive".

I don't know how she knew. I hadn't looked at myself in a mirror since the last little motel room, so perhaps I looked different. Perhaps it was written on my forehead. Hell, maybe it was just the fact that I was fully clothed.

"I…I…" I wasn't sure how to respond to that. Should I deny it? Could I deny it? She acted before I could decide.

She ran toward me and hugged me close, rubbing her body against mine in an intimate and embarrassing manner. She rubbed her face against my chest like a child seeking comfort, and I gave her a brief hug. Her thin body was soft and cool against my sun-heated skin, and she trembled with excitement.

"Um…"

"What are you doing here, live man?" So she knew I was alive, but not what I was.

"I'm looking for my brother. I have to get him out of here."

She gave me a pitying look, as if I was a slow child who had just claimed I would do the impossible.

"You can't. No one who belongs here can leave." She had a strange accent that I couldn't quite place, soft and exotic like spiced dates.

"He doesn't belong here. He made a deal to save my life; I can't let him stay here." I was determined and earnest and tried to show it in my expression. Dean called that expression 'puppy dog eyes' and said that he couldn't understand how I pulled it off. What he didn't get was that those eyes worked because I showed genuine, sincere feelings when I used them. They didn't work if I didn't mean what I was saying, at least on some level. But, then, Dean spent most of his life trying to keep his real emotions out of eyes that were every bit as expressive as mine. It would never have occurred to him to reveal his emotions, or any vulnerability, on purpose.

She stared into my eyes for a moment before giving a quick nod. I was a bit surprised when she did not let go of me. She leaned back so that she was no longer plastered to me, but she couldn't seem to keep her hands off of me she stroked my arms, my face, my hair—it was if I was some exotic animal she couldn't help but pet. The cool pressure of her hands, stroking and caressing me, was disturbing; I wanted to shrug her off (I actually enjoy physical affection, but only from people I trust), but was afraid of offending her.

"Your brother—he's not quite as tall as you, with short hair and a marvelous mouth?" I had never considered Dean's mouth marvelous before, but the description was close enough.

"Yes. Have you seen him?"

"They brought him through earlier today." 'They' was pronounced with a look of distaste and a shudder.

"They?"

"The guards. The Gaunt Men."

I felt a stir of excitement and concern. The 'Gaunt Men' certainly sounded ominous.

"Did you see where they took him?"

She nodded decisively.

"I'll show you."

It was hard to measure the distance we traveled, but it must have been at least as long as I walked before reaching the citadel, most of it downwards. The citadel had seemed big from the outside, but from the inside it was enormous. The part I had seen before was quite literally the tip of the ice-burg. The citadel stretched down far below the surface of Hell. How far down I could not have said, but miles at least.

There were two ways down that I saw. One was an elevator. It reminded me of an antique lift, with curling metal bars and clearly displayed pulleys. It was set in the center of an open area, and the shaft of the lift was open as well, supported by four slender obsidian pillars carved with intricate patterns. The shaft went so deep that I could not see the bottom. Around the shaft wound a spiral staircase made of wide, flat stairs.

I would have preferred to take the lift, but I feared that it would alert the guards to my presence. Though the stairs were exposed, they were also covered with plenty of shadows to hide my approach. Our approach.

My guide had forgotten her name she'd been in Hell so long, and forgotten many of the customs that guided human behavior. She kept at least one hand on me at all times, and wasn't that picky about where. She stared, and sighed, and leaned in to sniff my neck when I bent down. It was uncomfortable, her clinging hands and cool breath, but I dared not offend her. I needed her to find Dean.

Even though we stuck to the shadows of the stairway, the further down we went the more populous it was and the greater the chance of discovery. My guide informed me that few souls visited the first circle of Hell, the arid landscape that I had naively believed encompassed the whole of Hell. As it turns out, it was merely the surface of Hell, inhabited by a few demons and nothing else, save senseless souls trapped in the Sea of Despair that fed the Lethe. There were rumors of other human souls that hid in the first circle, but even though the lower levels of Hell were pits of torture (her words, not mine), they were still considered better than the lonely, lifeless isolation of the surface. After a few hundred years, torture is at least something new and interesting, even if you are the one being tortured.

Below the surface of Hell were the lower circles, nine in all, laid out almost like enormous subbasements. My guide had never been lower than the fourth circle, herself. Luckily for me, Dean had been taken to the second circle of Hell; the Hell for sinners guilty of lust.

I was surprised at this bit of information. While Dean was, undeniably, guilty of lust, I would have thought that selling his soul trumped his bedroom activities. But then, Dean sacrificed himself to save me, so he hardly deserved the ninth circle of Hell. Perhaps the second circle was the worst he could be accused of. My guide herself spent most of her time in this circle.

She told me that new souls are often pushed about and trapped in a certain circle by the Gaunt Men or demons, but that souls who had been in Hell for a long time were less restricted. It wasn't a reward; these souls had just realized that escape was impossible (I wondered if I should tell her about Dad). They were nearly invariably drawn to whatever Hell best suited them. It wasn't that they wanted to be there, just that they saw no better alternative. I was reminded of a book I once read that spoke of how people created their own Hell.

As we walked down the staircase we began to meet other souls. I stuck to the shadows, but they barely even looked up. Like my guide, they were dressed in little more than scraps of old, worn leather. Some were naked, others had bone beads and other decorations. Modesty seemed anathema. All had the painful shackles nailed to their ankles and wrists, and a few had collars designed in similar fashion.

Our luck did not hold forever. We had just reached the top of an enormous gaping window that showed a cavern that stretched in all directions when we met a Gaunt Man. The creature was hideous. It was tall and thin, all bone and muscle. Its flesh was pale, bloodless, and its eyes were white but not sightless. His lip-less mouth was filled with shark teeth, and its lank, pale hair hung down his naked back. He wore a pair of tight leather pants and had a large hunting knife sheathed at its waist. He began to walk past us, as everyone else had, then stopped. His nostrils flared and it sniffed the air, like a hound that had caught the scent of a fox—and I was the fox.

He turned his head slowly and smiled at us where we huddled in the shadows. My guide, much to my surprise, walked out of the shadows in a sensual strut. She went right up to the guard and pressed herself against him, soft skin rubbing against rough. He tried to ignore her, to follow my scent, but could not for long. She stroked the handle of his knife and kissed his bloodless throat and gave a little giggle. His large, spindle-fingered hands wrapped around her and roughly caressed her.

It was a good, if disturbing, distraction and I used it to my advantage. I slipped up behind the Gaunt Man and punched him hard in the back of his head. He was only slightly stunned by the blow, and turned to face me. One of his hands wrapped around my throat, and I started to struggle. The bruising force of his ice-cold hand was shocking and painful, and spots danced before my eyes as my lungs struggled for air. But he had underestimated my guide. She pulled his knife from the sheath and stabbed the creature low in the belly before sawing the blade upward.

The guard gasped in pain and let go of my throat. I stepped back in anticipation of spilled entrails and blood, but there was no mess. There was only the pale pink lining of the inside of its belly where my guide had eviscerated him. The creature was clearly in pain, but not completely incapacitated. My guide tossed his blade to me and told me to break it.

I wasn't sure why she wanted me to break the knife, but I had little choice other than to trust her at this point. I slipped the knife between two slabs of stairs and twisted it. It was made of bone and sharply thin and broke far easier than steel. The creature let out a high, wailing sound and collapsed, convulsing in pain. I felt a stab of guilt. I had killed before, many times, but I had never just left a creature in such pain.

My guide didn't give me time to worry about the Gaunt Man. She pulled me down the stairs hurriedly, warning me that we did not want to get caught near him. I worried that we would still be hunted down, but she told me not to worry. Occasionally guards attacked each other. It would be assumed that the creature had been attacked by one of its own kind as long as they weren't caught standing over it. No one would really care, she said.

I had to remind myself that I was in Hell, where simple human concern for another living creature was not to be expected. Her callousness was simple survival; it was a cold feeling.

When we finally reached the next landing of the stairs, we were in a different world. The hot, dry desert of the surface was long since hidden from view and we were in a subterranean world that was easily seen through the large windows of the citadel. I could see high rock walls and archers, stalactites and stalagmites, and, again, the thin, silvery river threading among the rocks as it had traced over the surface of Hell. Above, there had been an overwhelming sense of hopeless despair; here there was a gloomy, secretive atmosphere.

Inside the citadel hallways stretched through large arches and columns in all directions. It was a shadowy place lit by the occasional glowing blue orb. The walls were supported by intricately carved pillars and painted with murals of lust and degradation. Unlike the first floor, the second was busy with people. The first floor was too boring, my guide informed me, but the second circle of Hell was a much 'livelier' place.

Along side the people who, like my guide, looked to be mostly young, attractively forgettable, and barely clothed, there were other creatures. There were guards that we avoided as best we could, and pale, bent creatures that creeped timidly along. Like the guard, they seemed to smell me, but unlike the guard they were no threat. They simply stared sightlessly at me with blank blind eyes and let out the occasionally keening noise. There were pale, slow moving figures with large breasts and penises, but no faces, and hairless creatures that wandered on all fours like cringing dogs. The occasional darkly winged silhouette flashed and my guide was more frightened of them than the guards. Demons. Lesser demons, who could never hold a candle to Azazel or even Meg, but demons none the less.

We avoided the demons and headed at a small side hallway. My guide told me it was used for servants to bring food and delicacies to court. The citadel, she said, belonged to a high-level demon. The human souls were slaves, but Hell was kind to no one; even the demons suffered.

I wondered at my guide's motives. She seemed unusually attached to me, and I thought her brand of affection might have extended to any living person, but she had also put herself at risk for me with the guard, showing a level of loyalty that I had done nothing to earn. Her callousness regarding the Gaunt Man's pain made her seem cold, but her decision to help me save Dean had been a kind one.

"Why are you helping me?" I whispered. The side hallway was nearly empty and seemed to house only human souls like my guide. It was not completely silent, but far quieter than the open hallways filled with dark laughter, keening and wailing, and murmured conversation.

My guide glanced back at me for a moment with an unreadable look in her dark eyes and a still look on her face. She considered question for a bit before answering in a serious tone.

"I want to leave here. I've never heard of a human soul escaping Hell before—but, then, I've never heard of a living person in Hell before, either. Chances are you won't be able to leave, but if by some miracle you can, I want you to take me with you."

I was again torn with the desire to tell her about my father. If Dad, through sheer grit and determination, could escape Hell, then others could too. Something held me back, though. I couldn't say what exactly, but I knew instinctively not to tell her about my father.

"All right. If we can, we'll take you with us." There was no guarantee she'd get into Heaven, and we couldn't let her become a vengeful spirit—but at least she would have a chance to go somewhere better. Whatever she'd done in life to be damned to Hell, surely helping me and Dean would count for something.

She gave me a brilliant smile of gratitude and lunged forward to hug me again. Her gratitude was touching, but just a bit off, a bit too intimate, as all her reactions had been. I tried to ignore her strangeness—after all, she'd been trapped in Hell for a long time. Who could blame her for not quite being quite up on social niceties? Or maybe she was behaving in a way that was appropriate for whatever place she was originally from.

After an uncomfortable minute, she pulled back and smiled at me. A bright, hopeful smile full of shiny teeth. I smiled back, feeling guilty for my discomfort at her clinginess. Was I really so stingy that I'd resent giving comfort to this lonely, lost soul?

She tugged me down to the end of the hall like an excited teen bringing her boyfriend to a secluded make-out spot. We ended up in a small room with two doors, one that opened into the hallway and one that went elsewhere.

"Wait here. I'll go see if I can figure out exactly where your brother is."

She slipped out the second door before I could object. A part of me wanted to follow her, but I had already acknowledged that she knew this place better than me. If I followed her to the wrong place I could easily out myself to Gaunt Men or even demons. I could only wait and trust her to avoid detection.

Those were agonizing moments. I was close to Dean, I could feel it; it was like my soul was drawn to his warmth in this loveless place—but I couldn't go to him. I had learned long ago the patience a hunt takes. Stalking, blending in, research, and waiting are all as much a part of a successful hunt as the finale. But those skills were hard to keep in mind when the outcome of this particular mission was so important.

The roomed seemed to be getting smaller, and I heard the faint echoes of hard, fast music and squeals and wails and moans through the walls. It sounded like the club party from Hell, no pun intended.

The longer I waited the more worried I got, both about my guide and my time limit. Anything could have happened to her. She could have been captured by the Gaunt Men or cornered by a demon. Perhaps she had picked up some scent from me, some scent that made it obvious I was alive. And how long had I been trapped in Hell? How long did I have left before Dean was trapped here forever?

I had just begun to seriously considering following my guide when both doors burst open. Guards spilled through the entries like water through a funnel, and I was trapped. I fought, of course, but I had barely been able to fight against a single guard; I stood no chance against ten tall, thin creatures of muscle and bone. They overwhelmed me in a matter of seconds and a hard blow to the back of my head rendered me unconscious.

I woke up minutes later, none worse for the wear save a few bruises and a headache. I was slumped to my knees on the cool marble floor, held up by a large, hard hand on each of my upper arms. I continued to slump bonelessly and breathe evenly, ignoring the pain in my shoulders and hoping to gain some information about my surroundings before I let anyone know I was aware.

The muffled music I'd heard early was louder here. It sounded like a cross between Beethoven and Rob Zombie: wailing and fluid, hard, throbbing, hot. It was lust made into sound, with nothing of love or affection in it—just fucking.

The moaning and keening and wailing was louder, too. There were gasps and tortured groans with breathy little catches. It sounded like I was trapped somewhere between a torture chamber and an orgy. The occasional lash of a whip startled me, but I strove not to react.

Above the background noise, I heard a voice I recognized: my guide.

"My Lord, my Master, my Prince! I brought him straight to you. I knew you would want this living man for your collection, and he is sweet. He followed me straight to your arms like a lost kitten."

I felt a stab of betrayal at her words. How could I have been such a fool?

"_**And you did this just for my benefit**_?" The Voice was strong and smooth and beautiful and sexless. It was a voice made for Command and Seduction.

"My Lord, I worship you; I love you; I want your happiness—I simply beg that you acknowledge your slave." My guide's voice was syrupy sweet and I wondered how I'd ever been fooled by her. The Voice was not fooled for a moment.

"**_I am touched. As a reward, I will allow you to rise in status: you may go to the kennel_**."

I didn't know what the kennel was, but it sounded ominous. Apparently, my guide agreed.

"Master! Please! I, I have served you!" She sounded shrilly panicked; her plan had backfired.

"**_And you will continue to do so by amusing me. Do not fear, my Dear. In the kennel you will lose the last vestiges of the weak humanity that holds you back, and truly become one of my creatures. Are you not grateful_**?" The Voice was kind and mocking.

"NO! Noooooooo!" My guide's voice trailed off as she was forcibly dragged away. I felt pity for her, but it was paled by her betrayal. I couldn't afford to focus on her anymore. I had to worry about myself and Dean. Was he even here, or had she lied to me about everything?

"**_You can open your eyes now, Sammy. I want you to meet Beloved_**." the Voice said. Somehow it didn't surprise me that it knew my or that I was awake. I opened my eyes.

The Voice belonged to a beautiful giant of indeterminate gender. Et was at least eight feet tall, but perfectly proportioned, with a long, elegant build. Long, wavy, white-blond hair framed a face that looked like it belonged on a marble statue and six soft, dove-gray wings arched from et's back. Et looked kind and cruel, terrible and beautiful, and I was repulsed and drawn to et. I wanted to love et; I wanted to hate et.

But as magnetic as et was, I only had eyes for the figure sitting by et's side. Beloved. Dean.


	5. Three Strange Days: The Devil

Summary: Sam has found Dean—but things are never simple.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sam or Dean or anyone affiliated with Supernatural. I researched Belial on Wikipedia and made up most of the Hell stuff, so if it seems off, oh well. This is not meant to be a realistic depiction of Hell, just a creepy one.

Warning: I write with young adults in mind, not kids. So there are some cuss words, icky descriptions and I tried to make Hell…Hellish. So don't read if you're easily offended etc., etc.

Quick-Demon: Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. One more main part to this arc.

Heather: Sorry it took so long to post, I've been busy. But I have been working, and I hope you like this chapter. I know what you mean about the hiatus—I've been trawling through the fanfiction like nothing else. Thanks for commenting !

Shinohime: I was actually going to make them angels at first, but I thought that Nephilim suited them better. It's a little more ambiguous and kind of leaves room for the on-going internal struggle between good and evil that drives the show. (I actually thought of making Dean a reincarnation of Michael and Sam of Lucifer looking for redemption, but decided to go with the Nephilim angle instead. Maybe later). Thanks for reviewing, I hope you like this new chapter.

* * *

Three Strange Days: Day 2

The Devil

_For three strange days  
I couldn't put a smile on my face  
So they dressed me up in all of their clothes  
And took me somewhere else  
Johnny Clueless was there  
With his simulated wood grain  
So I pulled up a chair  
And started drinking by myself  
For three strange..._

_--Three Strange Days, by School of Fish_

_Upright, The Devil represents a concern with material goods and personal wants and needs; lust, sexual obsession, and frustration and oppression. Inversely it represents true evil; a focus on material gain to the exclusion of everything else; greed, bondage, and emotional blackmail._

* * *

When we were kids, everybody called me 'adorable' and Dean 'pretty'. And he _hated_ it. He thought 'pretty' was girly and weak. About the time he was ten, he decided that 'butch' could cancel out 'pretty', and he went for it. As he grew older, his jaw and chin squared out and balanced his pretty eyes and full mouth and 'butch' lost the cuteness of a child mimicking John Wayne and became a more earthy, sensual persona. He had the kind of romanticism of a fatalistic fifties movie star, James Dean incarnate. 

And there was no denying that Dean had been blessed with good look. A strong chin, aquiline nose, and pouty mouth underneath big, bright green, dark-lashed eyes made his face memorable, and he'd grown into a tall, muscular man. His strong, straight shoulders never bowed though he carried the weight of the world. It was easy to take his beauty for granted, especially when you knew him for a beer-drinking, flirting, pool-hustling, _normal_ guy—and he wore that mask well. He even fooled me a good bit of the time by hiding his courage and nobility behind that mask. And boy, would he hate it if I told him how much I admired him. Too chick-flicky for him.

His strange, masculine beauty was unmistakable now. He was still Dean, but somehow more. His skin was still that pale ivory, his hair ash brown, his eyes brilliant green; he still had that hint of a five-o'clock shadow and the same broad shoulders. But Dean almost seemed to glow. His eyes were magnetic, his mouth relaxed in sensuous repose, and his body looked both agile and powerful. I couldn't say what had changed, but he had a _presence_ that could not be denied.

And then there were the wings. Two large, gracefully arched wings. They were a deep red that darkened to almost-black claret towards the tips, and the feathers shown silkily. Even half-folded as they were I could see that his wings were broad and strong, the wings of an eagle (as opposed to my own more slender, longer falcon wings). I would never have pictured Dean with wings, but they looked right on him as he was now.

What struck me more than his wings or his _presence_ was his expression. Dean was always so full of life and twice as large, with a kind of haunted humor shining out of his eyes. He spent so much time trying to hide his emotions, but something always seemed to shine through. Now he was terrifyingly blank-faced. He stared at me without emotion and without recognition. He showed no discomfort despite the fact that all he wore was a pair of shiny black leather pants covered in buckles.

Shiny black leather seemed to be the dress code of this Hellish court. Even the tall, striking demon who ruled the court was dressed in tight black leather that showed off et's long, slender limbs. It should have looked ridiculous, like bondage wanna-be's who dressed in cheap pleather and ventured into fetish clubs with pseudo-boldness with no true understanding of the BDSM subculture—bored housewives and tax attorneys. Instead the clothes gave the creatures a darkly seductive look, and none more so than Dean. He looked like he belonged on a throne in Hell, and that terrified me.

"Dean. Oh my God! What have they done to you?!" I gasped, but Dean didn't react at all.

"He had this on him." The guard's voice was gruff and gravelly and it sounded as though he was barely able to produce human speech.

The Gaunt Man held out the colt, and I cursed under my breath. He handed the colt up to the demon, which looked at it curiously. _Dammit!_ How could I possibly get Dean out of here without the colt?

"_**And what were you planning on doing with this**_?" The melodic voice was mocking.

I glared defiantly at the demon, waiting for it to give some indication of what it wanted, what it would do with me, what it had done to Dean. It smiled, amused at my insolence.

"_**Welcome to my humble home. I am so glad you could make it.**_" Full lips parted in a wide smile that displayed sharp, dainty white teeth. "_**Take of his shirt**_," et ordered the guards.

In short order they had wrestled me into submission, removed my shirt and shoes, and put a cold metal collar with a chain lead around my neck. They attached the chain to a ring driven into the floor between Dean and the demon's thrones. The chain was long enough that I could kneel between Dean and the demon, but not so long that I could stand. A second chain trailed from the collar to a pair of shackles that were wrapped tightly around my wrists. It was a humiliating situation, but the guards weren't done.

One of the Gaunt Men put a large, cold hand on the back of my neck, forcing my forehead to the floor. Another rough hand pushed the muscles of my back, between my shoulder blades. I shivered as I felt the warmth leeched from my skin by those rough, hard hands and struggled uselessly against the strength of my captors.

The hand on my back found just the right place and pushed and my wings were forcibly ejected from my back. As soon as the tips emerged more rough hands grabbed them and pulled. My back ached as the muscles shifted around bone, muscle, and feather and I let out a pained gasp, but the Gaunt Men were relentless. It didn't take long for them to pull my wings to full spread.

While two guards held my wings open, another crouched beside me. He held a large, long nail in his hands and grasped my right wing near where it emerged from my back. Too late I realized what he was going to do, and he drove the nail through the muscle of my wing. I cried out in agony as my tender wing was violated, but he only laughed in amusement. Once he finished with my right wing, he repeated the process with my left.

The Gaunt Men, apparently finished with their task, released me and faded back into the room. I instinctively tried to pull my wings back in but the nails kept them from entering my back, tugging painfully at muscle and skin. I gasped in pain and realized that I had tears in my eyes. I blinked the tears back, wary of showing weakness in this place, and lifted my head.

During this whole painful, brief process, Dean had made no sound or move. He continued to stare mannequin ahead without emotion. The demon, on the other hand, watched me closely, with et's mocking-kind smile and et's avid eyes. Et reached out one pale, long hand and petted my hair gently, rubbing the strands in an appraising manner. Long sharp nails gently scraped my scalp and metal jewelry clinked. I pulled my head back, refusing the caress. I didn't get far before Dean's strong hand grasped my hair and pulled me back forward, holding my still so that the demon could do as it wished. I cried out in protest.

"_**So beautiful. And now I have a matched set; thank you.**_"

The demon looked at Dean and he followed et's silent command, jerking me around so that I was seated facing the court, pulled back between the two thrones, wings spread up and behind me. The demon to the opportunity to stroke my hair, my back, my wings. Unlike my former guide and the Gaunt Men, et's hands were warm and soft and would have felt wonderful in a different situation. Et's deadly sharp nails were like razors teasing my skin. Dean's hand remained tangled in my hair, holding me still and my head up, facing the court.

For the first time I got a good look at the demon's court. It was astounding and offensive. Under high-arched ceilings, bodies writhed in a mockery of dance and more intimate acts, and the writhing figures had faces of anguish and ecstasy. Here the souls that looked like normal people were few and waited on the others like servants; no, slaves. The souls that writhed and twisted and moaned on the main floor were mere mockeries of humanity—many were faceless, others lacked arms or legs or had extra. There was no one 'type', but rather a mish-mash of over-sexualized body parts. There were large, erect penises with thorns and barbs, huge heaving breasts with mouths instead of nipples, the occasional elongated torso lines with multiple breasts like the teats on a bitch; there were full mouths with sharp teeth, heavy, sleepy eyes rimmed red with tears, and so much more that I could only catch a glimpse of in the shadows of the room full of jagged, jerky motion.

The Gaunt Men reveled among the 'dancers', using their weapons with happy abandon, slicing and whipping and hitting victims. Their faces were like sharks in orgasm, and they didn't seem to care at all for the well-fare or comfort of their 'partners'. In fact they seemed to prefer reluctant, pained victims with relish. Raised platforms caught the dim lighting here and there. Each platform housed figures that frantically groped and twisted and humped in twos and threes and fours. At first I thought they were seeking pleasure, but when the light would catch the occasional face, there would be tears and agony and screams. They coupled not because they wanted to, but because they couldn't stop. For these poor creatures, abstinence was an unattainable, longed-for dream. The scent of semen, and blood, and fear permeated the air.

It was a very large room, and I couldn't see very far into it because of the dim and irregular lighting—which, I'm sure, was a blessing. But I could still hear the gasps and moans and screams. Some of the voices sounded human, but others were far too high-pitched or low to come from a human throat. Some were gravelly and rough, others as smooth as the toll of a bell. Some cried words I could almost understand, but others could only release animal sounds. I felt a great swell of pity for the souls trapped here and for the first time I really saw Hell as the torment that it truly was. The dull lifelessness of the surface seemed quite tame in comparison.

The demon's soft, elegant hand slipped back into my hair and stroked my skull gently. I could feel the immense strength in that hand and knew that et could crush my skull with no effort. I shivered and tried to lean away, but Dean would not let me. I could turn my head enough to look at the demon or Dean's expressionless mask, but no more.

"_**Do you know where you are?**_"

"Hell." I answered shortly.

"_**Ahahaha. Of course. Hell. But what part of Hell. Or, more importantly, whose court? Do you know who I am?**_" As before, the demon was amused by my defiance. I clenched my jaw in frustrated anger.

"No."

"_**I am Prince Belial.**_" It was stated simply, but with pride.

"Belial?" The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"_**So many things your father did not teach you. Truly, Samuel, you need to learn to identify demons. You may face mostly pitiful, low-level demons, but you need to know our hierarchy, structure, culture…**_" Et's tone was gently chiding.

"Culture?" I replied sarcastically.

"_**Yes. Culture. As much as you want to hate and despise us, you need to acknowledge that we are not animals. We have minds, and a culture. You do not need to do it out of respect. If nothing else, 'know thy enemy'.**_" As much as I wanted to I could not deny that et had a point.

"And I suppose you're willing to teach me?"

"_**I may have a few pointers.**_" A slender finger trailed down my back and gently traced the sensitive skin where the wings emerged from my back. I shivered.

"_**Hell is a unique place. The souls that end up here are not our prisoners; they choose their own torment. Take the Gaunt Men. In life, they were rapists. They made their genitalia into weapons. Their forms here are merely their souls without the trappings of humanity—and their weapons have taken the place of their genitals.**_" I watched one of the Gaunt Men whipping a victim, and the pleasure on his face was sickening.

"But they follow _your_ orders." I accused.

"_**Sometimes. Other times they act as they assume I would want them to. I didn't recruit them, you see. If they fail to follow my orders, they won't be punished. If I feel like it, I may punish them anyway. They **_**enjoy**_** being the guards of my citadel. In their minds it legitimizes their victimization of the weaker souls. It is a role that they have embraced whole-heartedly.**_"

"One that you have capitalized on."

"_**I never claimed to be a saint, Sammy. Nor is it my duty to try and save human souls. They have placed themselves in this position; I see no reason not to benefit from it. All of the souls you see here are here by choice.**_"

"I see souls being tortured, being tormented, being mutilated—and you expect me to believe they chose it!?"

"_**It is the truth. Your guide, for instance. She couldn't remember her name, could she? In life, she drifted from bed to bed, place to place. She never stuck out, never tried to do any good or evil, never did much of anything except let others take care of her. When she was gone, the others would forget her name because she was barely ever there to begin with. **_

_**When she died, she **_**could**_** have gone to Heaven. She could have taken an honest look at herself and admitted her faults and passed that way—but she chose not to. Instead she behaved in death as she did in life, just passed on through. **_

_**She **_**could**_** have chosen to stay in the first circle, as boring as it is, but instead chose to come here, to seek safety and purpose in the arms of others. We get many like her down here. But that wasn't enough for her. Eventually, she betrayed you not because she disliked you, but because she wanted me to take care of her; to take responsibility for her. And so she made herself my property. **_

_**Humans accuse demons of tempting them, of stealing their souls, but we don't. The truth is, we don't have to. It's not that hard to get humans to damn themselves—in fact, it's terribly easy.**_"

"But _you _told the guards to put her in the kennels, and she didn't want to go there."

"_**Souls who make themselves my property should expect to be treated as such.**_"

"But the mutilation…"

"_**Demons call human bodies 'meat-suits' for a reason. In the end, that's all they are. Packages designed to carry human bodies around. In Hell, there are no bodies; souls take physical form. For human souls, that means that their physical forms are, for the first time, a true reflection of their souls. For demons, it means that we are flesh and blood; vulnerable to pain and weakness. That is why the lesser demons hate this place so. For immortals like you and your brother, your souls and bodies have fused, become one. Damage to your soul will show in your body and visa-versa, whether in Hell or on Earth.**_"

"Am I your property now?"

"_**Oh no, little Once-and-Future King. You're special. You did not give yourself to—you were tricked into it. But you still chose to come here.**_"

"It wasn't a lifestyle choice," I replied acerbically.

"_**Of course not. You're here for my Beloved.**_"

"_Beloved_." I mocked, "You don't love him! What have you done to him!?"

"_**True. I don't love him. I'm not capable of it. Fallen angels are still angels, after all.**_"

"What do you mean?"

"_**I thought **_**your**_** little angel told you. Angels do not feel love. God gave many gifts to mankind, but none so precious as faith, hope, and love. To **_**MANKIND**_**. His first children did not share in these gifts. You see, we had personal knowledge of God. That knowledge left no room for doubt or fear. Without doubt, there can be no faith; without fear, no hope—for faith is belief in the face of doubt, and hope is trust in the face of fear. As for love, we do not have the capacity for it—nor hate, nor true fear or despair. We were meant to be even, gentle creatures. But I can admit what my proud brothers cannot; we fell for envy of the gifts we could not receive.**_"

"But…why?"

"_**Who knows? Your little angel would probably tell you God has a plan, and we received other gifts. Personally, I think God was simply so enamored of his new toys that he forgot about his old ones. But don't feel pity for me, Nephilim. I don't need it.**_"

"I won't!" But I was, just a bit. I had never taken the time to try and see things from a demon's point of view before, nor had I wanted to. Maybe now I understood what Dean felt trapped with the possessed Casey for hours. He'd never been able to explain why he'd been so upset that I killed her, and I thought that he'd just been unhappy to see me kill anyone; typical overprotective Dean. Now I wondered if his upset hadn't been for the demon herself. A life without love, or hope, or faith sounded lonely and sad.

"_**And then there's your brother. You probably won't believe me, but I did nothing to him. When he died, he fell into the Sea of Despair. His doesn't truly belong here, you see. In fact, he was just about to go to Heaven when your father sold his own soul to save Dean's life two years ago. So perhaps it is only natural that he was drawn to the Sea of Despair. It is a place for lost souls trapped in limbo.**_

_**The Sea of Despair feeds the river Lethe, and the waters induce forgetfulness. Beloved awoke when you turned him into a Nephilim and left the waters, but he has not regained his memory. I have simply given him a place to be.**_"

"But you hold the contract for his soul?" I asked suspiciously.

"_**Not I. The Gaunt Men found him and brought him to me is all. The contract for his soul was complete once he reached Hell. If you had not turned him into a Nephilim, he could have floated in the Sea for all of eternity, safely out of the way.**_"

"Out of the way? Out of the way of what?"

"_**You'll have to ask the one who held the contract,**_" Belial replied with a secretive smile.

"You didn't bring him here, and you don't make souls stay here, so you'll let me leave with him, right?" I knew it was dangerous, but I was prepared to bargain and to use everything I'd learned at Stanford pre-law.

"_**If you can convince him to go with you, I will not stop you and I will order the Gaunt Men to let you pass. If you can't convince him before it is too late, though, I get to keep both of you.**_"

"I thought you weren't into tempting souls."

"_**Not generally, but you and Beloved aren't just any souls. You're special. Besides, both of you came here of your own free will. Beloved didn't even struggle when the Gaunt Men brought him to me, nor has he tried to leave at any point.**_"

"All right." It was risky, but if I couldn't get Dean out in time, I really had no reason to go home anyway.

* * *

_The Prince's new pet was pretty. Shaggy chestnut hair, golden satin skin, and a long, slim, straight form matched beautifully with the dark gold-bronze-black wings. But the best part was its eyes—those beautiful, cat-like, dark jade eyes. And it shown with an inner light and purity that was beyond lovely. Beloved didn't know why he was so drawn to the creature, beautiful or not (it was just a new pet, after all) but the creature seemed drawn to him as well. It stared at him with sad, pleading eyes and made gentle noises at him. He petted it when Belial wasn't looking._

_The creature responded pleasantly to his petting, looking at him sweetly and leaning into the caresses. It made Beloved feel a hint of warmth in his cold heart. But he was a fool to think Belial hadn't seen. _

_Beloved had begun to caress the creature's soft, silky wings when he caught the Prince looking at him. He expected censure, but Belial simply smiled at him and asked him if he liked the new pet; if he would like to have it. Beloved saw no reason to lie—he wanted the soft golden creature for his own. _

_The Prince gave the creature to him without hesitation; Belial was so generous. But, the Prince warned him, the creature was untamed—it was best to clip his wings lest he fly away. Beloved felt a strange, deep ache in his center at the thought of his new pet leaving him, the most pain he had ever felt in his short memory—so he agreed without hesitation. _

_Beloved unclipped his new pet from the ring set in the floor and led it through a door in the back of the room, down a small hallway, and into a room he'd never seen before.

* * *

_

When Dean bent down to unleash me from the floor, I was hopeful. Had he remembered who I was? Were we going to leave now? But he didn't look me in the eye or acknowledge me anymore than he had when he'd begun to absently pet me.

Dean was behaving so strangely. He kept looking unblinkingly at Belial and every now and then an odd listening look passed his face. And still he showed no emotion. Dean was normally so full of passion, whether he was flirting, fighting, or playing. I'd been mad at him, annoyed with him, embarrassed of him, sad for him, proud of him, in awe of him—but I'd never been chilled by him; never seen him so cold. He was undeniably my brother, but in so many ways he wasn't. I briefly considered the idea that he was a demon or some kind of construct that just looked like Dean, there to fool me, but I knew it wasn't true; I just knew it, somehow. I had been fooled by the shape-shifter when it imitated Becky, but not when it wore Dean's face. I wasn't fooled now—this was my brother.

Dean led me through the court like a dog on a leash and Belial just watched us leave with a strange smile on et's face. I tried not to look at the Hellish courtiers, but I couldn't keep them from brushing up against me and stroking my half-naked body if I passed close enough. I shuddered in disgust and pity for the distorted, pathetic, horrible creatures. Dean was treated much the same as me, but he didn't even seem to notice the strange hands that reached out to stroke his face, his body, his wings. He remained stoic, and I felt hopeless. I would have given anything to hear one of his smart-ass, insensitive, protective remarks at that moment.

We left the room and went down a small, dark hallway that was plainer than any other part of the citadel that I'd seen. There were no carvings or pillars or decorations, just black obsidian walls and marble floors. It was an ominous little hallway and it frightened me. The door set at the end of the hall was just as ominous and plain—heavy black metal threatening as a storm-cloud. When Dean opened the door it gave a protesting squeal. The coppery tang of blood rushed out of the room like air out of a long-sealed crypt and I balked. Dean only glared at me impatiently and tugged me forward like a recalcitrant dog on a leash.

The room was worse than I had imagined, like something out of a horror movie. So far all of the rooms I had seen in the citadel had a kind of stark, cruel beauty. But this room was ugly, and damp, and dank. It was dominated by a large, strange metal chair with thick leather straps in the center of the room. Tables stood next to the chair filled with sharp metal tools, and blood was splattered on the floor and walls in a sticky brown Rorschach.

The far wall was decked out with trophies. But instead of deer heads and moose antlers, the wall was covered with wings. Huge sets of wings grouped together in twos and threes and fours. Softly feathered wings of pure white, sky blue, buttercup yellow, and verdant green were pinned next to bat-like wings of wrinkled brown leather and bloodless veins; and sharply scaled wings of green and red and gold patterned with diamonds and stripes; and insectile wings of iridescent hues. It was a large wall, for the room was small in circumference but the ceiling arched stories high over head. The sheer number of trophies was astounding and horrifying, and I had to wonder what had happened to the creatures they had been torn from. For that matter, what manner of creatures had they come from? Angels, demons, Nephilim, dragons, fairies?

Of course it didn't take long for the implications of _my_ being here to occur to me. Dean meant to cut my wings off. I hadn't had them long, nor had I had time to think on them too much. Time to become particularly attached to them. But at the thought of them being cut off my back with surgical precision, or hacked off carelessly, or torn roughly sent a cold stab of panic through my belly into my spine. I reacted with animal instinct, pulling back against the chain that held my collar and frantically flapping my wings. They battered the stone walls with bruising force, but I didn't feel it, only the fear of immanent mutilation.

Dean gave me a perplexed look, the most emotion I'd seen on his face, and stood firm, holding me still with no problem. He'd always been just a bit stronger than me, but now he seemed as strong as Superman. I remembered Jake and wondered if strength was one of the powers Dean had gained. How ironic if it were true—the very powers I had forced on Dean to save his soul used to destroy me, and my soul, if Belial were to be believed. If damage to my body was the same as damage to my soul, and visa-versa.

Dean dragged me over to the chair with ease and attached my chain to a hoop in the back of it. Upon closer inspection, the chair had a narrow seat and a tall back with an oval indent on the top. The indent, faintly stained with blood, was designed to hold the chin of the victim forced to sit in the chair backward, strapped down with their back left vulnerable. Dean made no move to secure tightly to the chair, though. Instead he began inspecting the tools on a nearby table. Some were rusty and dull, and he tossed them to the side with derision, choosing instead sharp, clean instruments. At least he had that much mercy—or perhaps he simply did not want to damage me too much.

I tugged at the chain around my neck and examined the collar, but it had no lock that I could find, and neither could I see how to release it from the chair. Time was short, because Dean was preparing his implements with efficiency. Once I was strapped into that chair, I was done for.

A spark of heat in my front pocked reminded me of the amulet. Strange, the Gaunt Men had found the colt but not Dean's amulet. Or perhaps they simply had ignored the amulet because it wasn't a weapon. I pulled the amulet out of my pocket and looked at its soft, comforting glow and knew what I had to do.

Moving as quickly as I could, I caught Dean off guard and threw the amulet over his head and around his neck.

* * *

_Beloved was surprised at his new pet's attack. It had balked at the door, but other than that had behaved for him. So he had not expected it to throw things at him. It tossed a simple leather thong around his neck. A silver charm of some kind of animal was attached to the thong. It was a strange weapon of choice, but powerful. As soon as the amulet hit his chest, Beloved was driven to his knees by a vision._

_**A small, dingy room and a small boy with chestnut hair and solemn green eyes.**_

"_**Are monsters real?"**_

"_**We have the coolest Dad in the world…"**_

_**A shabby little Christmas tree and stolen presents and an absent father that left a void. A gift wrapped clumsily in left-over newspaper, chosen for that father but offered to him. An unusual amulet.**_

"_**I want you to have it…"**_

_**The warm smell of pancakes and home and little brother, the silky texture of hair brushed off a sleepy forehead.**_

_**The green-eyed boy, learning to shoot a rifle, to fight hand-to-hand, to pick a lock, to ask a girl out. To stand up to that father, to dance, to research, to speak Latin, to hide pain behind a smile. **_

_**Pride and sorrow and bittersweet lost innocence.**_

"_**Dean, show me how to shoot again."**_

"_**Ask Dad."**_

"_**But I want **_**you **_**to show me!"**_

_**That solemn boy laughing, crying, seeking comfort after a nightmare. Angry, belligerent, rebellious. That boy growing taller and taller and more and more handsome, that boy growing distant and angry, that boy going away. **_

_**Hurt and pride and rejection.**_

"_**I want to go to school! You can't stop me, and you shouldn't want to!"**_

"_**If you walk out that door, you might as well keep on walking! Don't come back!"**_

_**That boy becoming a man, learning loss and grief, finding purpose and strength. That man showing mercy and compassion and a kind of courage that had nothing to do with weapons or fighting. That man suffering death visions. That man becoming frightened of his own self, that man feeling guilty for crimes not his own. **_

"_**It's like I'm cursed."**_

"_**You don't understand! The more people we save, the more we can change my destiny!"**_

"_**If I ever become something I'm not, you have to kill me."**_

_**Sorrow and regret and helplessness.**_

_**That man being stabbed in the back. That man dying in his arms. That man coming back from the dead, a little harder, a little colder. That man becoming desperate and terrified and stubborn. That man determined to save him. Those same serious green eyes looking at him with grief and love and guilt and blame and anger and sadness and terror and respect and fury and betrayal. **_

"_**Now I have to learn to live without you!"**_

_**That man. His brother. Sammy.

* * *

**_

For a heart-stopping moment I thought I had killed Dean. Which was ridiculous since he was already technically dead. He reacted to the amulet as if he'd been shot. His back arched and he shuddered and trembled and dropped to his hands and knees. His eyes were blank and sightless and he made a low moaning sound deep in his chest. I called out to him, but he didn't seem to hear me.

He knelt there for several minutes and I couldn't go to him as I was still chained to the chair. I watched, hoping for the best. Eventually he stopped moaning and stopped shuddering, though he still trembled a bit. Then he raised his head and looked straight at me.

"Sammy?"

His eyes were whirlpools of emotions—guilt, and confusion, and wonder—and he looked strained and pale. But it was the best I'd ever seen him look because he looked like _Dean_. He'd lost that vacant stare and become my brother again.

"Dean!"

"Sammy, what's going on? What are you doing here?" His voice was scratchy and dry rather than its usual smooth baritone, but it was music to my ears.

"What do you think? I'm here to rescue you!" I couldn't keep the relief and joy out of my voice and really didn't try.

"No, Sammy—if this is Hell you can't be here. And what have you done to yourself?"

"Don't worry about that—if we get out of here in time we can both leave. Come with me, Dean. I won't leave you here!"

"_**How sweet. Really, it's a little 'after school special', don't ya think?**_" I didn't know when et had entered the room—perhaps et had been there all alone—but it took Belial no real effort to dominate the dank little room.

"Sammy?" Dean's confusion made it clear that he couldn't remember the demon, at least not clearly, and he watched et warily.

"Forget et, Dean. Come with me, please." I sounded desperate, I knew—Hell, I was desperate. Time was running low and we still had a long way to go—and who knew what wrench Belial would through into the mix?

"I…I…Sammy, I can't watch you die again."

"And you won't have to if you come with me now!"

"_**Or you could stay. Take your place by my side. No more hunting, no more fear, no more watching Sammy get hurt. You won't have to worry about the police, or a hunt going wrong, or failing anybody. Can Sam offer you that kind of freedom?**_" Et was seductive and convincing, and Dean seemed swayed by Belial's argument.

"You won't fail anybody because you won't try to help anybody! All the people you could save will die, and we'll be trapped here forever. Because I AM NOT leaving without you."

"_**Don't worry about Sam. He can stay as well, and we'll protect him. He's always been a bit self-destructive, hasn't he? Pushing away his father, pushing away you—the only people who could truly understand him. If you truly love your brother, you need to protect him now, from himself.**_"

Dean was staring at Belial, mesmerized. There was little I could say to counter et's logic, and there was only one thing that really mattered anyway.

"Dean, please. I love you. Trust me."

Dean looked away from Belial and met my eyes. I tried to put everything I felt into them, to show Dean what was really going on. There was so much that he did not understand and I could not explain in that moment. Jess had told me that life is directed by a series of choices we make for ourselves and for others. Dean had chosen for me to live when Jake stabbed me in the back; I had chosen to turn us both into Nephilim, to give Dean a chance at life; now Dean had to choose for us again, because I could not force him to leave and I would not leave without him. If Dean was going to go with me, it wouldn't be because of any argument I made. It would be because _I_ was the one who made it, and he loved me.

"Let's go, Sammy."

"_**How disappointing. Oh, well—can't win them all. Besides, I have all eternity to wait. I get the feeling I'll see you two again. I'll uphold our deal, Sam, and order the Gaunt Men to allow you to pass through unmolested. And you may take this with you.**_" Belial tossed the colt to Dean.

Dean's face mirrored my own shock. Why had a demon given him a gun that could kill demons? Dean searched my face for advice. I shook my head. If he killed Belial, there was no telling what the Gaunt Men would do. We had won this battle, but it was a limited victory.

Belial only seemed mildly disappointed at et's loss, but demons were hard to read. Et could have been furious, but hiding it out of pride. Still, et seemed more amused than anything else—this thing, this gamble for Dean's soul and mine, had been nothing more than a game to et, one et didn't mind losing too much.

Belial faded into the background with a graceful wave of et's hand that seemed to melt the collar from around my neck, leaving me free to rush to Dean's side. I hugged him close and he hugged back, his and weaving into my hair and pressing my face to his shoulder like I was a small child or something precious and he never wanted to let go.

In that moment I believed that everything would be all right if he never let go.


	6. Three Strange Days: The Heirophant

Summary: Sam and Dean are reunited; can they make it out of Hell?

Warning: AU, spoilers, Sam POV, supposed to be scary so there are monsters

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything is leveraged. It's a house of cards.

Cat: Thank you so much for your review. I'm glad you're enjoying the story—reviews really keep me going, so its nice to see them :3 .

* * *

Three Strange Days: Day Three

The Hierophant

_I've got to make it through  
No matter what it takes  
Oh I've got to make it through  
These strange days_

_Three Strange Days, School of Fish_

_Upright, the hierophant symbolizes ritual, religious guidance and knowledge, and good advice. Inversely it represents misleading or dubious advice, poor counsel, slander and propaganda; distortion of truth and a bad time for signing agreements. size=1 width=100% noshade>_

I was a fool to believe that getting out of Belial's citadel would be the last challenge to getting Dean home. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't easy. The gaunt men left us alone (reluctantly slavering at us from a distance, stroking their weapons and giving us hot looks), but Dean was distracted by the sharp dark stone and the writhing creatures, and the sweetly sharp scent of sweat, blood, lust, and despair. He was drawn to the place and repulsed by it, and it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. He remembered very little of his time there before the amulet, a macabre dream that quickly faded from memory. He was confused and worried and irritated, ready for answers and unsure what my presence in Hell meant for us both.

But Dean had been raised to be a warrior, a soldier, and like any good soldier he was capable of focusing on the mission before anything else—no matter how bizarre and frightening that 'anything else' might be. He pulled his impressive focus to the fore, but not before giving me a sharp look that clearly said 'we'll talk later'.

I was so glad to see familiar warm emotion shining out of those clear malachite eyes. Dean should never look cold. Even when he was sad or angry or scared, he was warm, hot even, and that was just the way he should be. A fire that kept me from turning to ice; a blazing light that held back the darkness in my soul.

The citadel was more complicated than I'd anticipated. Even though I thought we'd followed the same route I'd used to enter the citadel, we exited miles away. We stepped out of the cool, dark reaches of the black citadel into twisting dark woods. The air was heavy and damp and hot, full of decay and rot. I'd seen the forest in the distance when I'd entered Hell, but had gotten nowhere near it. Now that I was in it, it was more ominous and cruel than I'd thought.

The trees were rough and thick and dry, and they twisted broken trunks upwards to pierce the sky with rotted limbs and sharp leaves. The woods were still and silent—but not empty. A forest on Earth is almost never truly silent. There are always leaves rustling and birds singing and animals going on about their business just out of sight. A forest goes silent for one very good reason—the presence of a predator. Not just any predator (there are more predators about than you may realize—even most songbirds are predators to worms and bugs), but one that is a risk to every creature in the forest; an unnatural predator. Animals can sense the unnatural and, unlike humans, they haven't spent the last hundred years convincing themselves to ignore their instincts because magic and monsters don't exist.

I didn't think the twisting wood had any cute little squirrels or robins hiding in it—but there was something there. I could feel it; not with any kind of psychic power, but with the instinct and knowledge Dad had instilled in me long ago. There was something evil here. Not that that was surprising, considering the fact that we were in Hell.

"Well, this is cheery. Straight out of Disney." Dean always got his most sarcastic when he was unnerved. His dry humor served as a touch-stone that kept him grounded and focused and staved off hysteria (an understandable risk in a life like we led). It had done the same for me as long as I could remember. Dean was no longer bigger than me physically, but he still protected me with his towering personality and impenetrable will.

"Yeah—watch out for Bambi." Of course, I can be sarcastic too. What can I say, I learned from the best.

"Okay, genius. How do we get outa here?"

"I—I'm not sure. This isn't where I went in. I thought I brought us back the same way…"

"Yeah, well, maybe you did. This is Hell, after all. Maybe the friggin' castle thing moved or something." He had a point. There was no telling how space or time worked in Hell.

Our view was limited to the citadel behind us and the trees around us. The sickly gray foliage was not particularly lush or full, but it was thick enough to allow only a scant portion of dry red sky to show, and I couldn't see any sign of direction or the cliff face. I decided to climb a tree to see if I could get a better look at our surroundings. Dean was doing immeasurably better, but he was still a bit weak, so I volunteered to climb before he could. Not that he'd ever admit to any weakness, but he didn't object to me climbing the tree either.

Climbing has always been a little easier for me than Dean. My long limbs were just made to find hand-holds no matter how widely spaced and my slimmer build gives me just a little bit more agility (and left Dean just a bit stronger than me). I'd taken pride in the few things that I bested Dean at, including climbing, and he'd responded with pride hiding behind sarcasm and the occasional nickname 'Spiderman'. Climbing turned out to be much more awkward with a set of huge wings on my back.

The tree itself was tall and thick and unpleasantly warm. It rough, but also spongy. It didn't feel like a tree, but almost like flesh, and the stench of rot was stronger. I shuddered, but kept my repulsion to myself. This had to be done.

I wormed my way up the tree, weaving through thick twining branches that seemed to grasp at me with bony fingers and eventually reached the top of the tree. It was crowned with thick foliage that was as sharp as it looked. The leaves were like tiny, heart-shaped blades that cut my arms and torso and hands. My wings were protected by feathers that were as soft as silk to the touch, but much tougher and more resilient than that fragile material.

From the top of the tree, I could see the countryside well. The forest twisted around us for miles on every side and, though the individual elements of the landscape were familiar, they seemed to be in different locations than they had been before. The Sea of Despair was farther away and the river Lethe cut a curving swathe through the forest behind us. In front of us, away from the Lethe and the citadel I could see the sheer cliff that dropped off beneath the road that would take us back to Earth. It was closer than I had expected, only a few miles away, and I gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps the cliff had moved to accommodate me—or perhaps it was the land itself that had moved and we were where I had expected us to be. Either way, it was good news.

As I picked my way down the tree I began to feel a tingling, stinging sensation in the little cuts the foliage had peppered me with. A wave of dizziness passed over me and I had to pause before I passed out. I hung precariously to the tree just five or six feet of the ground and waited for the world to stop spinning.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was filled with worry.

"I'm fine. Just give me a minute." I didn't sound convincing, even to myself, but he didn't say anything. I could feel his concerned gaze boring into my back and forced myself to continue moving. If I had to pass out, best I did it on the ground.

I was probably only a foot above the ground when the tree moved. With no more warning than a few creaks, two thick limbs wrapped around me like lover's arms and pulled me closer to the tree. The spongy, rotted wood broke apart to show a vertical gaping mouth hidden in the crevices of the trunk. At least three rows of sharp triangular teeth grinned mockingly in front of a black, gaping maw and hot, stinking, rotting, moist breath wrapped around me in a nauseating embrace.

"Dean!"

"Sammy! Hold on, Sam!"

I couldn't turn away from the toothy mouth in front of me, but I struggled. I pushed and kicked and hit and flapped my wings frantically, but the tree wasn't even phased and continued to slowly pull me in. The rough surface of the tree left me with scraped knuckles and feet and arms and even more bruises than I already sported. I felt Dean's warm strong hands gripping my arm and pulling and it hurt. He nearly pulled my arm out of my shoulder, in fact. I cried out in pain and he let go of me immediately.

With a jerking motion, the tree pulled me closer. I braced my hands and knees on the bark to either side of the maw, but I knew I couldn't hold out much longer. I was still weak and dizzy and getting cold and quickly running out of energy.

Dean's big hand grasped the limb nearest my face and pulled. Dean has always had strong, practical hands. Not as long as mine, but thicker, with strong fingers and calluses. Hands made for grasping guns and knives, hands made for combat and hard work. Hands that used to tuck me in at night and put bandages on my skinned knees and ruffle my hair. Hands like our father's, but there long after the time when I'd stopped expecting Dad to be there for Christmas or birthdays or to scare closet-monsters and nightmares away.

A creaking, cracking sound signaled my release from the tree as Dean pulled back so hard on the thick limb that he broke it. I fell heavily onto my back and groaned at the pain in my wings. The tree shuddered and let out a pained screaming, keening noise like a wounded animal. Dean looked at it without mercy, aimed the colt at the tree, and pulled the trigger.

Dean's actually a really compassionate, merciful guy. He hides it, but he's very empathic. But Dad raised him to hate supernatural things, and that hatred was as much a part of him as his intrinsic kindness. And stronger than that hatred or that kindness was Dean's love for me. He had promised me long ago that he'd never let anyone or anything hurt me. He'd promised himself. He took that promise very seriously, and struck viciously out at anyone or anything that attacked me. My very own avenging angel. How he would have hated that comparison.

The tree shrieked again and shuddered as the familiar golden lightening energy arched out from where the bullet had struck the tree and consumed it. The tree flashed black and white once, like a negative image of itself, then again before dying. The tree stopped moving and its creaking limbs broke and hit the ground with force that left them shattered and broken. The tree burned feebly, releasing pale smoke into the gloomy air.

Once the tree-thing was decidedly dead, Dean wasted no more time on it. He knelt next to me and inspected me with the care and professionalism of an army medic (the way we'd both learned so long ago from a friend of Dad's who was an actual army medic). He briskly patted me down looking for broken bones but found nothing worse than a sprained wrist. And the cuts. And my wings.

"Oh my God, Sammy!…" Dean breathed as he saw the cruel nails that kept my wings extended. He touched one gently. I tried not to react, but I couldn't hold back an instinctive flinch. Dean's jaw squared and his eyes darkened and I knew we would talk about this later as well.

The myriad little cuts I'd gotten from the razor-leaves had looked harmless at first—thin red lines not likely to even scar. But they skin around each cut had reddened and was now hot to the touch, itchy and tight and sensitive as a sunburn. They bled more freely now, creating little crimson rivers on my skin. Dean grimaced and worried passed over his face like a dark cloud.

"You've been poisoned, man. How bad is it?"

"Not too bad. It stings a bit, but that's all."

"No headache, dizziness, difficulty breathing?" I considered lying—no point worrying him when we didn't have so much as a first aid kit—but could never hide from his sharp eyes.

"I'm a bit dizzy. It's not bad. I'm okay, I can walk." I put strength into my voice to emphasize my point.

"Maybe we should rest a bit," Dean was well on his way to mother-hen mode.

"Can't. Its not safe and we're on a time limit. We've only got to go a few miles and then we can get out of here. I'll be fine—this won't kill me." Probably true.

I could tell he wanted to argue, but he couldn't deny my logic and there was no safe place to rest anyway. If one tree was carnivorous, chances they all were and sitting still in this forest was like waiting for slow-moving wolves to attack. Slow-moving, poisonous wolves from Hell.

"Which way, man," Dean acquiesced, his face hardened in soldier mode, but his bottle green eyes bright with worry and determination. I pointed out our route, and Dean helped me to my feet, pulling me up without effort, as if I weren't a burden.

The trees were widely enough set that we could walk between them without getting to close to any trunk, but there was a feeling of waiting that lent the already gloomy atmosphere an even darker feeling. We were able to walk in a fairly straight line toward the cliff, but we didn't go as quickly as we could have in our care to avoid the tree-things.

A thick, greasy mist rose from the ground and grasped at us with clammy fingers, and the sharp leaves that littered the ground sliced at my bare feet. Luckily the cuts stung no more than a paper cut. Apparently the dead leaves weren't poisonous.

I was dizzier standing up, but I tried to hide it from Dean. I'm not sure I succeeded, but he didn't say anything—allowing me my dignity. Still, I knew the minute I stumbled he'd be there to catch me. It was warming to know that; Dean was home, just like he'd been when we were kids. Home the way its used in hide-and-go-seek: a safe place. Sanctuary.

I hadn't realized how much I missed that feeling until I felt it again. All those months waiting for Dean to die and failing to save him, looking for him. I'd lost that feeling in a way I never had before, even at Stanford, where I couldn't see him. Dean once told me that Mom used to tell him that angels were watching over us. He didn't believe it, but it made sense to me; Dean was my angel. And perhaps it was cowardice that I felt such relief that my long year of trying to save him was nearly done, and he could retake his rightful place as protector.

It was odd, for so long I'd resented him for being my protector. Around the time I turned thirteen I shot up nearly a foot in just a few months and my baby fat melted off, leaving me with lean muscle. I changed from a tiny, chubby little kid into a tall, wiry, raging mass of hormones and resentment and decided then that I was grown up enough to look after myself. Part of it was probably just normal teenage stuff, but part of it was an attempt to distance myself from the dangerous life my Dad, and by then Dean, lived.

I wasn't allowed to hunt yet, which meant a lot of nights waiting alone in the car or motel room. I started resenting Dean for leaving me alone. I was terrified he wouldn't come back, terrified he would get hurt or just tired of taking care of me. Afraid he'd ride off into the sunset, or just start forgetting birthdays and holidays and me. Afraid that he would get killed and I wouldn't be there to help or even say goodbye. And just like I distanced myself from Dad when I learned he was a bonafied monster hunter, I started distancing myself from my brother—as if that would have made his death any easier. But logic doesn't apply to emotion, particularly to the emotions of an angsty thirteen-year-old.

And I was tired. Tired of being alone, tired of moving, tired of leaving my friends, tired of being scared. Dad and Dean were the only constants in my life, and they could be taken away from me at any time. So I started to rely more and more on books. And not just demonology books and the like, but on Grisham and Tolkien and James Joyce Oates, on fantasy and characters that would never betray me and the academics that could take me away from the wearisome life I was living and maybe, just maybe, give me a chance at a normal, safe life.

But no matter how distant or bratty or moody I was, Dean was always there. He never did forget my birthday or Christmas, even if he couldn't afford to get me much. He went to my school play, and the science fair, and cared about my grades more than he ever cared about his own because he knew I cared about them. He always supported me and loved me and protected, even when I didn't want it; even when I took it for granted. Dean was right when he called me selfish. I can be incredibly selfish; most people can. It's probably actually pretty healthy to be selfish now and again, a survival instinct. The only reason I have enough self-esteem to be selfish is because of Dean. Because he was there to make sure I didn't just survive my childhood, I lived it. Now a part of me remembered the child I used to be; the child who adored the big brother that managed to be brother and mom and dad and Superman all rolled into one. And I realize hat that child never really went away; he just got covered up by all my selfish angst and the fear that was at the heart of it.

Spending time with Dean for the last few years had been remarkable. I'd learned to see him with an adult's eyes and so many of those things I'd admired as a child but failed to see as a teen were still there. In fact, they'd never left. He was still quite possibly the bravest person I'd ever met, kind and compassionate and caring. Smart and daring and cocky and funny and charming and protective and everything a big brother should be. He was irritating and irreverent and quirky. He was also lonely, and insecure, and sad, and terrified of being left alone. He was warm and real and human and there. He was an amazing person and I was closer to him than I ever thought I could be. Even closer than I had been to Jess, because Dean knew almost everything about me. I had fewer secrets from him than from anyone else I'd ever known, and I'd never been brave enough to open up with Jess and tell her about what's really out their and the things I'd seen and done.

I had gotten so caught up in my thoughts that the Hellish wood had faded from my view and I was just following Dean like a shopping-dazed child following his mother at the mall. As long as I kept his back in my sight, I felt safe enough to let my guard down, because Dean never would. Of course, I normally wouldn't either, not during a mission—the tree venom must have affected me stronger than I realized.

A flash of movement caught the corner of my eye, and I twisted to follow it, stumbling and nearly falling. Dean was at my side in an instant, ever-vigilant.

"Sammy?" Waiting for me to tell him what was wrong, trusting me to be truthful.

"I…I thought I saw something." My voice was weak.

"What?"

"I'm not sure. It moved too fast, I just…"

Dean didn't question it; he just turned so that our backs were together and pulled out the colt. We stood together in a defensive position, warily watching the woods together. My eyes were a bit blurry, so instead of focusing and covering every inch of the woods, the way I knew Dean was, I let my eyes slip focus and waited for the slightest hint of movement, for anything that did not fit with in the still forest. The human eye is efficiently designed to see form, shape, color, and movement, and the peripheral vision is sharper than central vision. By letting my focus slip, eye increased the accuracy of my peripheral vision and heightened my chances of seeing any movement.

Dean and I stood like that for several minutes, back to back, to warriors against the world—but nothing happened. There was no movement, no flash of disjoint color, no sound. Nothing.

"Maybe…maybe I was seeing things," I said doubtfully.

"Sammy…" irritation warred with concern in Dean's voice. If I was unfit, I should have told him. Not that there was anything he could have done.

"I'm a little light-headed, having trouble focusing. The poison is a bit stronger than I thought." Which kind of made sense. In the middle of a forest a slow moving poison might not have provided any particular tree sustenance, but if you thought of the tree monsters as a herd, then chances were at least one member of the herd would benefit. Especially if the venom was a hallucinogen. A victim may escape the initial tree, since they were slow, but would most likely wander into another tree once mind and body had been slowed and distorted by the poison.

"Dammit, Sam!" I knew the annoyance in Dean's voice wasn't aimed at me. He was just worried. I probably wouldn't have recognized that fact a couple of years ago and reacted with my own irritation; but at that moment I knew Dean was feeling desperate to berate me.

Dean slipped a strong arm around my back under my wings and supported me. I objected, but he hushed me, and he was probably right. Getting out of Hell quickly was even more important now so that I could be treated. There was no telling how virulent the venom was, and I could take a turn for the worst quickly. Dean could possibly get out of Hell on his own, but I doubted he could carry my up the cliff face if I lost consciousness and he wouldn't leave without me any more than I would have left without him.

With Dean's support we moved through the forest quickly. I was growing weaker and stumbling more, but Dean didn't slow, instead choosing to drag me when necessary. His face was tight and his jaw clenched. He always did take injury to me much more seriously than injury to himself. The heavy heat wore on us and before long I could smell the salty tang of sweat and effort rising from Dean's skin. My own skin failed to start sweating. In fact, as time went on I began to feel chilled and my pale gold-brown skin started to blanch to a sickly cream color, a bad sign. Dean didn't say anything, but I caught his narrowed eyes looking at my face.

We seemed to have traveled forever and couldn't have been far from the cliff-face when I saw the movement again.

"Dean!" I yelled, pulling to a stop. Dean kept pulling me for a few steps, nearly dropping me to my knees, before he stopped as well.

"There's something there." I made my voice steel. I was sure of it this time.

"Sammy…" Dean didn't believe me, but I knew I was right.

"Trust me!"

Dean stared into my eyes a moment that we didn't have, and I tried to convey my certainty. He gave a reluctant nod, trusting my instincts over the venom.

We took our familiar defensive stance barely in time. The flash of black rushed us, only to swerve away at the last moment as Dean aimed the colt at it lightening-fast. The creature finally stilled on a limb ten feet in the air, and I got a good look at it for the first time.

It wasn't tall—perhaps 5'9"—nor was it bulky. Instead it had a loose lanky scarecrow's build. All I could see of the creature was a silhouette in black, covered in rags with a slender, crooked top-hat upon its large round head, and its manic Cheshire grin filled with razor-sharp teeth. Its stick-thin arms led to oversized hands with razor tipped, many-jointed fingers. It tilted its head back and let out a mad cackle and a shiver ran up my back.

"What the fuck…" Dean swore. This creature looked like something out of one of those children's stories that double as fantasy and horror, like Anderson's Little Mermaid or Alice in Wonderland. A mad hatter.

Dean aimed the colt, but the hatter was too quick. It moved like a blur from the limb and around us to the right. As it passed it swiped a long claw that sliced through my hip. For a moment I thought it had missed me, its claws were that sharp. Then a familiar burn signaled blood pushing through the thin, deep cut, running down my leg and slicking my jeans to my leg. I gasped in pain, and Dean's arm tightened around me.

"Come on, you son of a bitch! Just hold still!" Dean was mad now. He gently guided me to the ground and stood over me like a mother bear over her cub, just as deadly.

I stayed still, knowing that I could be no help without a weapon, and was as quiet and as small a target as I could make myself. Dean was equally still, waiting with a predator's tension for the hatter to make a move. The mad cackle sounded behind us, and Dean twisted from the hips, bringing the colt around.

The creature was moving even as Dean turned and it was on the other side of the clearing so quickly that I didn't see it hit him, but a moment later blood welled from three parallel scratches on Dean's shoulder. He grimaced, but his stance didn't falter as he tracked the creature as best he could. I wanted to do something, but any move I made would only distract Dean, and as quickly as the hatter moved any distraction could be deadly.

One of the bad things about the colt was that it was an old-fashioned gun and could only hold six bullets at a time; unlike modern guns whose clips could hold many more. The gun still had five bullets, but Dean couldn't afford to waste shots. There was no telling how many creatures would ambush us before we reached safety. So he waited until the creature paused to pull the trigger.

The resulting bang sounded unusually loud in the still wood. The creature was too quick, though, and moved out of the path of the bullet before it hit. The tree behind the creature was not so lucky and died with a squealing screech like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"Damn!" Dean cursed.

The hatter used the distraction of the tree's loud death to circle behind us. It rushed us again while we were still looking at the tree, aiming for Dean with a blow that would have ripped his heart out if he hadn't been prepared. But without looking he pointed the colt over his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

It was a risk. He couldn't aim in that position, but the truth of the matter is that he wouldn't have had time to aim anyway. The creature simply moved too fast. He was able to move his gun arm more quickly than his whole body and took a gamble that the creature would attack from behind. A shot in its general vicinity was the best he could hope for.

The good thing about the colt is that it doesn't much matter where the gun hits as long as it's a solid hit. It's the magic of the colt, rather than the actual bullets, that destroys demons. Dean's gamble paid off.

The hatter let loose an inhuman multitonal scream that rocked the forest. It stood mere steps away from us, its mouth open in agony. This close I could see the reason I had only seen a silhouette earlier—the hatter had no features other than its mouth. No eyes, no nose, no texture or hair. Just solid black and gleaming white teeth.

The familiar crackle of energy circled the hatter and spasmed and its body torqued in agony. It stumbled back and hit a tree before sliding down and falling still, a limp-limbed ragdoll. The tree was either indiscriminate or getting revenge for its fellow, for it wasted no time before opening its maw and pulling the body of the hatter inside. The tree-thing's mouth closed with a sickening crunch and black blood oozed out of the nearly invisible crack that hid its maw. It was hard to feel sympathy for the hatter, but even harder not to be creeped out by the carnivorous tree and the wet-crunch of chewed bones.

Dean dropped next to me and gave a triumphant grin.

"Showed that bitch!"

"Yeah," I smiled back, relieved to see that familiar smirk.

"Let's blow this joint, whatcha say?"

"Sounds like a good idea."

I was not in a good way. I needed Dean's help to stand, and between the venom and the blood still leaking from the cuts on my hip and thigh I was getting worse. Dean wasn't as fresh as a Daisy either. He still hadn't completely recovered from his dip in the Sea of Despair and bright red blood flowed from the claw marks on the meaty part of his shoulder, trailing down in chest and arm to soak into the dark leather of his pants drip into the ground. I wondered if the roots of the demonic trees would absorb our blood.

Still, no matter how tired Dean was, his determination and strength were like a rock. I had only recently begun to realize how much it cost him to maintain that strength and how much I relied on it. I relied on it again as Dean supported most of my weight through the forest, moving quickly. Chances were that if there was one mobile monster in these woods, there were more and we were down three shots and a pint of blood apiece.

Perhaps we were closer to the cliff than I thought or perhaps I was simply too out of it to notice the passage of time, but in what seemed a matter of minutes we were there. Never had a rock face looked so beautiful, smooth and cool and glassy and reaching to the heavens. I could have kissed it, I really could.

"Now what?" Dean asked.

"Now we fly."

"I was afraid you gonna say that," he said with a wry smile. The cliff looked very tall from the bottom, and he'd never flown before, and I'd only glided, and we were both wounded. Hardly ideal conditions for a first flight, but we had no real choice.

"Or not," said a hard, cruel alto.

Dean pushed me behind him protectively as we turned and I fell to my knees without his support. I couldn't see anything other than the trees, but we didn't have to wait long for the owner of the voice to show herself.

She was tall and pale and anorexia-thin, with long, straggly green-blond hair and washed out eyes. Her skin was smudge with soot and bruises and her hair burned off in uneven clumps. She wore a ragged brown shift that swirled lazily around her thin, bruised legs and three ragged wings stretched out behind her. The wings looked fragile, slender bones covered by her thin, pale skin.

I recognized her instantly and I don't know why. She certainly didn't look or sound anything like her host had, and I'd only ever seen her shadow before, and that just for an instant. But I knew exactly who she was.

"Ruby."

"Got it in one," She replied with an arch smile.

"What do you want, bitch?" Dean had never liked Ruby.

"What do I want? WHAT DO I WANT!?" There was a hysterical edge to her voice and madness in her faded blue eyes. "I want the world at my fingers and Sam at my beck and call. I want you safely floating in the Sea of Despair and losing a little bit more of yourself each instant you're there. I want the power that was promised me, and I want it NOW."

"Learn to live with disappointment." Dean's voice was flat.

"And you know, I almost had it all," she continued, ignoring Dean as she started to pace, "But then that BITCH interfered. I mean, you were gone, Dean. Gone and not about to claw your way out of Hell like your Daddy did. Sam didn't have a clue how to save you. He was all angry and grief-stricken and hopeless. It would have been so easy to give him comfort; so easy to give him hope—and all I would have asked for was a little obedience."

I felt sick inside as she continued and a realization dawned on me.

"And Sammy, baby, it would have been so easy for you. I mean a step here, an inch there, and before you know it you'd have gone all the way darkside. You were on the way already, after all. And once you gave into it, there would be no pain, no loss, no fear—only power. You could have ruled the world—with me by your side, of course."

"You held the contract on Dean's soul," my voice was limp with emotional exhaustion.

"I would have let him go eventually. Once I was sure you were completely mine and he couldn't take you away. I mean, let's face it—without Dean, there's nothing standing between you and the abyss. Oh, baby, I would have made it feel so good to be bad that by the time he was back you wouldn't really care anymore."

"You're wrong. Sammy'd never turn like that," Dean staunchly defended me. 'Saint Sammy' he used to tease me, but I was only a saint in his mind.

"You really believe that, don't you? You really think Sammy would never walk that path, but Deano, he's already started. Didn't you know—for a Nephilim, your physical body and soul is one and the same. I can literally see your soul, and Sam's, and they tell me a lot."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean was getting impatient and defensive.

"Your wings, genius," Ruby's voice went hard. "Look at them. Yours are red, fading to black, and Sam's are supposed to be gold. But Sammy's wings are nearly black, so tarnished that you can barely see the gold. Tainted."

"Tainted?"

"Yup. Tainted with darkness. He was well on his way to being mine." She gave a lunatic grin and moved closer to us.

I don't know what she was planning, but I was sure she was planning something. I leaned closer to Dean and pulled the colt from where he'd stuffed it at the small of his back. I whipped the gun toward Ruby and took aim.

"Stay back." I made my voice as firm as I could and ignored the look of surprise that Dean shot back at me.

"Scared, Sammy. Are you gonna shoot me? Why don't you just do it? Go ahead and shoot me." I hesitated, used to her manipulation. "WELL AREN'T YOU A MAN!? SHOW ME! SHOOT ME!"

I cocked the gun and tightened my finger on the trigger.

"Don't, Sam." Dean's quiet voice surprised me. He'd wanted to do away with Ruby since we'd first learned she was a demon, and now he told me not to shoot her?

"She wants you to shoot her too much. Something's not right. Don't do it." He answered my unspoken question, voice firm.

"Maybe that's her game. Make her think she wants us to shoot so we won't." A part of me really wanted to shoot Ruby, especially since she was without a host. No innocent human to get caught in the crossfire.

"It doesn't matter, because we're getting out of here and she isn't."

"Don't kid yourself," Ruby laughed, "I'll get out again. And I'll come for you. Sammy, you will be mine if I have to rip Dean to pieces to get to you. You do understand that as long as I live, no one you care about is safe, don't you?"

And I wanted to shoot so badly I could taste it. I wanted to shoot her the way I'd wanted to shoot Jake or the crossroads demon or even the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Azazel. My hands shook with the desire.

"Come on, Sam. Let's just get out of here. This bitch is all talk. Besides, we could kill all day long and not get all the things that want to hurt us. Hell, we need to worry about Meg before we worry about this loser. Let's go."

I looked up and Dean and saw fear and regret in his eyes. Fear for me. Fear that Ruby was right and that I was turning darkside and that he couldn't stop me. Regret that I wasn't the same person I'd been just a year before, the person that had never taken a life and never intended to. Ruby had once referred to my 'gentle nature', and it was something I was losing—something Dean missed. I couldn't pull the trigger in the face of Dean's fear. I just couldn't, no matter how much I wanted Ruby dead.

"Yeah," I said, "let's go."

We lifted our wings high and pushed down in a powerful first stroke, lifting us off the ground. Taking off was awkward (and hard!), but luckily seemed to be more a matter of instinct than learning. Before long we were shooting upward along the cliff-face. A scream of rage echoed below us and Ruby followed close behind. There was a rage on her face that I'd never seen before.

Her extra wing and experience with flying gave her an edge and she gained on us quickly. The nails in my wings and wounds we'd received didn't help. Each flap of my wings pulled on torn, stiff muscle and the venom did not mix well with the sudden altitude change. My dizziness increased and I lagged behind Dean.

A hard bitter hand wrapped around my ankle and yanked, painfully interfering with my flight. I looked down at Ruby's triumphant, mad eyes and snarled. I would not let her keep me here!

"Sammy!" Dean cried. He tried to make his way to me, but had to bank when our flapped against each other and interfered with our flight.

I was tempted to take aim with the colt and shoot her, but I wouldn't. Instead I stomped down, hard, on my ankle. Her hand broke with a brittle crunch and she shrieked again in pain. I stomped down again, biting back my own cry of pain as pain flared in my ankle, and she let go. I wasn't far above, but I was free for the moment.

Then, for no apparent reason, Ruby seemed to stop in mid-air. I could still see her wings flapping frantically, but she didn't move up and I rose far above her. It was strange, as if the laws of physics had stopped working and gravity weighed more on her than it should have. One final shriek of rage sounded before we were too far above her to hear her.

It was because she was a demon. There was nothing else it could be. She couldn't take our path out of Hell because she was a demon. If we'd stayed in Hell to long, we'd never have made the top of the cliff either. We could have flapped and flapped and flapped and never made it.

But we did make it. Our wings were sore and tired and we were breathing as if we'd just run a marathon—probably more exercise than running a marathon—but we made it.

Dean and I collapsed gratefully on the flat grassy ground, gasping for breath and smiling triumphantly. I felt like I could have stayed forever in on that soft fragrant grass staring at sky that had somehow changed from dry angry red to a soft cerulean—but I knew I couldn't.

I forced myself to my feet, ignoring the pain in my wings and favoring my wounded hip and swollen ankle, and offered a hand to Dean. He grasped my hand, but used his own power to get up. Probably just as well, he might have pulled me over on him otherwise. Instead of letting go of my hand, he slipped his arm back around me in a supportive gesture.

"Let's go home, little brother."

It was a pleasant walk. Or at least as pleasant as a walk where you're injured and poisoned and on a time limit could be. Jess had told me I had three days to get Dean out of Hell, and I didn't know how much time was left or if this road counted as 'out of Hell'. Still, I was walking with my brother and there were no demons. It was a big improvement.

The road was much as it had been on the way in, pleasantly flat and decorated with flowers and grass on either side. It could have been any country road, and the dirt was surprising soft under bare, cut feet. Even the sting of my wounds and the sticky pull of my jeans against the cuts on my hips seemed to fade a bit. The marks from the hatter had finally stopped to bleed on both me and Dean, and my head felt clearer.

As before, it was hard to tell time because of the flat horizon and lack of landmarks, but Dean and I hurried as quickly as we could and before long we were at the end of the road. A familiar ramshackle house sprawled ahead of us flanked by the hulking, rusty metal beasts that had sat behind that house for as long as we could remember. The impala gleamed darkly in the sparse glow of a porch light and crickets chirped in the dusky evening. Somewhere a whooperwill sang its gentle little heart out and we could smell healthy earth and metal and home.

"Ruby said that our souls and our bodies were one. But my soul was separated from my body before whatever it was that happened. What's going to happen to me once we step off this road?" Dean asked. His voice was firm, but I sensed the fear in it.

"Don't worry. I think I understand what's going to happen. I'll unite your soul with your body and you'll be fine in just a few minutes."

"You sure?"

I thought about it. I had no assurances at all that what I thought would happen was right—but Jess wouldn't have started me down this path if I couldn't truly save Dean. We were Nephilim, true immortals, and there had to be a way to reunite Dean's soul with his body.

"Yeah. I am. Trust me." I looked into my brother's eyes and smiled, trying to convey hope and confidence. He smiled back and his worry was relieved. He trusted me, and that warmed something in me that all of Ruby's words and tricks couldn't touch.

"All right then."

We stepped off the road and Dean disappeared. I caught the amulet before it hit the ground and started walking toward Bobby's house.


	7. Three Strange Days: The World

Summary: Epilogue to Three Strange Days. Back on Earth, just a little bit left to go until Dean's whole.

Warning: AU, Sam POV, not a lot of Dean.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own no one. Sue me and I'll find something to counter-sue for.

Invisabell: Thanks for the comment! I'm glad you like my Hell—I was going for creepy and vivid, but you can never really be sure how something is coming out, you know? I'm glad you like my Ruby, as well. I don't much like the character, but I could totally see her becoming a new Big Bad, and she'd make a good villain if they pushed the envelope with her a bit.

Anya.j.h.: It's always a little disappointing when I don't get many comments, but it's nice to know that some people are still reading and like the story. This is the end to this particular arc, but I am planning on picking the story back up, so hopefully I'll have something up soon :3 .

* * *

Three Strange Days:

The World

_It was completely still  
Except the pounding of my heart  
Bringing me back to life  
From three strange days  
Three strange...  
Three strange days  
Three strange days_

_--Three Strange Days, School of Fish_

_Upright, the world card represents successful completion of a part of life; accomplishment and fulfillment; Inversely, it represents frustrations, fear of change or inability to change. _

I first met Bobby when I was four years old. Dad dropped Dean and me off at his house so that he could go after a near-by poltergeist. I can still clearly remember Bobby's face when he saw the two of us. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open and he looked like he was trying to speak, but he couldn't. As a matter of fact, he looked like nothing so much as a cartoon, and my child-self half expected his eyes to shoot forward and his jaw to drop clear to the ground with comic sound effects. I found the picture so funny that I let out a high-pitched giggle—which just made Bobby boggle at us just that much harder.

I can understand now why he was so flabbergasted. He must have known that Dad had children, but knowing that a fellow hunter is a father and being asked to baby-sit two small boys are two very different things. We changed from abstract dependents, a sign of Dad's irresponsibility, to real, live, loud, rambunctious children ready to turn 'Singer's Auto Repair' into one large playground.

Bobby wasn't the stereotypical babysitter—but, then, Bobby wasn't the stereotypical anything. He looked like a trucker, had the library of a demonologist, and quickly became gruff, kind 'Uncle Bobby'. He looked after us with a mixture of bemusement and irritation and I think he half-expected we were imps in disguise, so thoroughly did we disrupt his life. It must have been bewildering for a confirmed bachelor who was one step away from becoming a hermit.

I was a shy child, but I took to 'Uncle Bobby' as if really were my uncle and I'd known him my whole life. Dean wasn't quite so trusting. Bobby himself didn't seem to know what to do with us, but he stumbled through as best he could and somehow found his way onto Dad's list of people dependable enough to watch his boys. And so Bobby's home became a kind of safety net for us, along with Caleb's and Pastor Jim's.

Bobby eventually learned to treat us with the same kind of gruff, no-nonsense affection he used to train his dogs, and we responded as eagerly as any pair of puppies to that bit of stability and security—me more quickly than Dean. I was just thrilled to have a place to visit that was always the same, complete with puppies and books. Dean held out for a while, probably out of loyalty to Dad, but eventually Bobby won him over with personal lessons on the inner workings of cars and other fun machines. I think it was good for Dean to learn that he could be close to another adult, and not be betraying Dad.

Bobby's home hadn't changed much in twenty years. It was still a piece of Americana, humble and homely and beautiful in the way that crickets singing and the smell of gasoline and old leather and _home_ are beautiful.

The rough gravel and dirt underneath my torn and bloodied feet hurt, but in a good way. In a _real_, earthy way. I rested my hand fondly on the smooth, cool metal of the Impala as I passed her and could have sworn I felt a faint echo of warm affection rise up to meet my hand. I trailed my hand up the body of the Impala and down the gentle slope of her hood, reluctant to lose that warmth and the support she provided. Eventually, I ran out of car and managed to make it those few steps to the front porch. I stumbled up the stairs to the door, trailing blood and feeling more tired by the moment. It was much harder to drag myself forward without Dean there to support me—but knowing that he was in the house gave me a goal worth any amount of pain.

I knocked wearily, three ragged, uneven bangs. I left little smears of blood on the door, but I couldn't feel guilty for it; I didn't have the emotional reserves left.. Besides, it was not the first time this house had seen blood. The door creaked open and there he was. Bobby.

His expression was warily welcoming for about two seconds. Then he saw my wings and once again his face took on a cartoonish expression of shock, his jaw dropping so sharply I expected to hear a 'boing'.

But Bobby wasn't just Bobby anymore. Superimposed on the deceptively simple-looking man was another version of Bobby that looked taller, wiser, somehow more vital. It was Bobby and yet it wasn't. The figure was worn around the edges and wounded here and there, most of the wounds old and faded; but the figure was immeasurably strong and competent and warm and caring and brave. It was Bobby's truest self.

I can only imagine what I looked like to him. I was so tired I drooped, and I wore only a battered, bloody pair of jeans that stuck to my leg and hip around the vicious claw marks left by the hatter. My naked chest and arms were crisscrossed with dozens of smaller cuts, and I tracked bloody footprints behind me. And then there were my wings; large wings, gold-black feathers smudged with dust and blood. I couldn't see the area where the nails held them open, but I could feel the pain from the holes torn through muscle and sinew pulsing with every breath. The muscles of my wings were so sore that they dragged the ground a bit and the glossy feathers at the tips were dulled with dirt.

For several moments Bobby simply stared at my wings, and I couldn't blame him. Eventually, though, his eyes wandered back to my face and once again he blanched with shock. I didn't know what he saw that surprised him so, and I didn't ask. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"S-sam?!"

"Hey Bobby."

My voice was rough and tired and I sagged against the doorframe while Bobby stared at me. It didn't take long for his surprise to fade into suspicion.

"Just give me some holy water."

I was too tired to argue with him, and it didn't even occur to me that Nephilim might react to holy water. I just took the silver flask from his shaky hand and downed it.

Usually holy water tastes like, well, _water_. Unless, of course, you're a demon—then it burns like acid, and who can tell what it tastes like? It didn't do either to me this time. It was sweet and fresh and tingled as it went down my throat. It was like swallowing light, and it rushed through my veins and along my limbs to my fingertips. I felt lighter, better, and some of the pain that weighed me down disappeared. Bobby watched me anxiously, hand behind his back where he undoubtedly held a weapon of some sort, just in case. When I didn't start gasping and smoking he visibly relaxed. I smiled wearily at him and he returned the grin uncertainly.

His suspicions weren't fully laid to rest (and who could blame him?), but he stepped back and allowed me to cross his threshold. Like Bobby, the interior of the house looked exactly the same and yet completely different. The walls were faded and warm, the wooden floor worn and familiar, and piles of books rested on nearly every flat surface. The key of Solomon was inscribed on his ceiling and other little surprises for demonic guests were hidden around the house. Which was exactly what I expected to see.

What I didn't expect to see was the lights. Softly glowing lights shining in pale blue around the pewter and ceramic and plastic containers of holy water (kind of like the duct tape of demon hunting, you can never have too much). A stronger golden glow traced the lines of the key of Solomon on the ceiling, and a second hidden on the floor beneath the welcome mat that I'd never known was there. Not only were the delicate, intricate designs traced in gold (revealing the artistic side of Bobby's many-faceted soul), but the pale light also extended in a golden cylinder from floor to ceiling, creating a cage of energy that was delicate as breath and strong enough to hold a demon. Fainter glows in all shades of the rainbow betrayed other protective measures—a charm here, a sigil there.

Past the dazzling beauty of the lights, the house had taken on more character more than ever. There was a warmth that I recognized with my soul, but not with my eyes. A sense of welcome and purity that I could not explain, and it embraced me.

I wanted to explore the room and the lights and the feel of the house, but I could feel myself fading fast, so I stumbled across the room with Bobby close behind. He stuttered something, directions I think, but I wasn't listening. I didn't need them anyway. I could feel Dean as strongly as if I was connected to him by a line of nerve-strung tendons that flexed with each beat of my heart, a syncopating rhythm that ground out in Dean's cold stillness when it should have been met by a complimentary beat that created a percussive duet. It was painful to feel each beat fade away like a wave crashing to a shore that swallows its strength; it was an open wound.

I trailed down the hall to a small, windowless room. The room was cool and still, a spare bedroom furnished with only a small bed and rickety table, used on the rare occasion that Bobby's house was full to overflowing. It was not a particularly comfortably room, but it was private and cool and had a sense of melancholy that suited a death vigil. Poor Bobby, this was his third Winchester death vigil.

Dean was laid out on the bed, hands crossed over his chest. His head was turned to the side and his skin was so pale it was a kind of blue. When people view the dead, they often claim they look as if they were sleeping. Dean had that kind of peace to his face; a relaxation that hid all worries and doubts. That peace and Dean's still posture, as much as anything else, told me that he was dead. He _never_ slept that peacefully. He slept deeply, but not peacefully. He tossed and he turned and he wiggled and sometimes muttered in his sleep. He sighed and moaned and occasionally snored. He was as active and passionately alive in his sleep as he was awake. Never so peaceful and still.

"Sam, whatever you were expecting to happen—it didn't. He's still dead. Its time to say goodbye," Bobby's soft accent was soothing, but he was wrong.

"No, Bobby. It's not over yet," I didn't look at his face. I didn't need to in order to know that it was full of pity.

"Sam…I hope you didn't sell your soul. I hope you didn't turn yourself into some evil thing. It would break Dean." There was warning and dread in the tone.

"No, Bobby. Don't worry about it—they wouldn't have made that deal anyway. I just made a choice." I gave Bobby a soft smile and his eyes widened—shock, awe, fright?

I turned back to Dean and leaned over him. I kissed his cheek fondly—something he'd never let me do if he could prevent it—then gently slipped the amulet around his neck, lifting his head and laying it down reverently. I arranged the charm on his chest and squeezed it trying to convey my hope and desperation before stepping back.

For an aching moment I thought I had been wrong. That nothing would happen, and Dean was truly dead. It took just long enough for my heart to speed up and begin banging with a desperate abandon before a feeble thump-thump traveled down that line of nerves and brushed against my soul. It was like the first break of dawn when light bursts over the horizon and paints the sky in shades of gold and pink.

Then Dean's back arched so high off the bed that all that touched the cool sheets was his heels and his crown. He took a ragged, hoarse gasp that lasted an eternity and his skin flooded with color. The gasp finally ended and Dean sat up, arcing over so that his forehead nearly touched his knees; coughing and hacking as his lungs learned to work again. A low moan signaled the onset of pain as the skin over his scapula split slowly. Dark red feathers pushed out of the split skin like being born and slowly lengthened into wings that should have looked odd to me, but were instead familiar.

Distantly I saw Bobby stumble away from the bed, holding tight to his silver flask. I felt bad for surprising him like this, but I had no time or energy to prepare him. This had to happen _now_; it was 11:53 on day three according to my watch, which was mysteriously working again.

It didn't take long for Dean's wings to fully emerge from his back, large and graceful and shedding just a bit of blood like a duck's wings shed water. I reached forward and patted Dean's back above his wings. When I touched him it was as if a jolt of electricity shot through me, strengthening our connection. His stuttering heart strengthened and began to beat in time with mine, and he started to breath easier. He lifted his head and his eyes met mine. Dean had beautiful eyes—large and expressive, a paler shade than my own dark jade, they were luminous and softly shuttered by dark lashes. They were _Dean_ and he was alive. I lunged forward and hugged him. His skin was still cool to the touch, but it warmed up noticeably by the moment as blood pumped through his veins bringing vital energy to his skin. He was soft skin and smooth muscle and hard bone and, now, silky feathers and I embraced him the way I did when we were children and didn't worry about being masculine and tough—and he hugged me back.

"Sammy?" His voice was rough with disuse, but recognizably that deep, husky baritone that warmed me to the core.

"Yeah," I admit that my voice shook with relief and happiness, and more than a bit of exhaustion. I had tears of joy and relief on my face.

"Wanna tell me why the _Hell_ we have wings?"


	8. Interlude: Pale in Your Shadow

Sorry about the long wait. This is a short interlude, but I'm currently working on editing the next chapter, so it should be up soon. 

Ukfan101: I'm glad you like. Sorry, you'll have to wait for the next chap to see Dean and Sam have that discussion.

Ikchen: There should be a lot more of lights and feathers coming up!

Lady Linteweth: Thank you:3

Anya.j.h: Thanks! I had to add in a little Impala love—and I love Bobby, too! He's so great. A really fun character, I hope they keep him. Sorry about that scary Dean dead moment, but there was a reason for it. I hadn't thought about the rating being a probably—I automatically look at 'all' ratings when I browse. You may be right there, but I think the depiction of hell is a bit too graphic for T. Maybe I'll start posting in another archive as well (I'll still post here!). Look for the answers to some of your questions in the next chapter :D .

Lilgurlgreen: Thanks! I'm glad you like. 

SupernaturalGal6: Thank you! Hope you keep reading.

Peregrine: Thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

Dani Fitzroy: Thanks so much! "I love how you so vividly describe hell, dark, dirty, revolting, and disgusting, yet so appealing to that dark side in every human being". Exactly what I was going for—that's how Hell should be. The relationship between the boys is one of my favorite parts of the show, so I wanted to do it justice in the story. I'm glad you think I am. Keep reading! :3

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Interlude: Pale in Your Shadow 

_Rock on -- ancient queen_

_Follow those who pale_

_In your shadow_

_Rulers make bad lovers_

_You better put your kingdom up for sale_

_Up for sale_

_Well, did she make you cry_

_Make you break down_

_Shatter your illusions of love_

_--Gold Dust Woman by Stevie Nicks_

_Fools. Surrounded by nothing but fools._

The dying rays of a crimson sun soaked the small Victorian home in blood like a murdered doll house. Each room was immaculately clean and decorated with lace and satin, handmade doilies and antiques. It suited the little porcelain girl in her china-doll dress and perfect curls. 

_She didn't ask for much. She allowed her minions bask in reflected glory and serve her and all she asked in return was absolute obedience and adoration. But these fools could not even grant the simplest request. _

A woman dressed in a bright red sundress played the role of Mrs. Ward, a perfect mother who managed to look fresh and beautiful while keeping the house spotless and baking the best chocolate-chip cookies—bait to draw in the neighborhood children whose souls made the most delicious morsels for her 'daughter'. A far cry from the dowdy, greasy killer the woman had been before becoming an acolyte.

_That was the problem with being a leader of demons. Like ill-trained curs, only the weakest and stupidest could be trusted to have any loyalty at all. The stronger, smarter ones were always too ambitious. They'd be loyal up to a point, then they'd betray their master in the name of their own hubris. Like that bastard, Azazel. One of her best until he tried to trap her in Hell and run off with her prize. The idiot had not even realized what he had—he'd confused the arrow with the target. And he'd gotten considerably less pain than he deserved. _

Few people noticed how many odd guests the Victorian house welcomed, for most visited in the dead of night; bodies slumped and dragged like ill-fitted meat suits; high-held heads and proud postured backs; men and women, young and old, beautiful and hideous. Even fewer saw how the 'visitors' slavered over the girl child, prostrate and submissive.

_Unfortunately, that meant her most trusted and closest minions were incompetent fools. It made her miss the days when she'd had human worshipers. Humans were, of course, weaker than demons, cattle, but surprisingly adaptive and competent despite their many short-comings. Still, even now a small cult of human acolytes was growing. Her minions did not understand why she cultivated them, but she did not answer to minions. _

If odd cries occasionally came from the house no one was brave enough or observant enough to question it. If animals ran from the house or just lay down and whimpered in terror when they got close to it, no one seemed to notice. If the once lush, green lawn and strapping oak next to the house had gone dead and brown and brittle, people only remarked 'what a shame'. 

_Once she'd had little contact with any but the most powerful demons, her servants. Demons who had allied themselves with her out of respect for her power, her beauty, her cruelty. Demons housed in the beautiful forms of the most devout human worshippers, who spread their souls open like whores for her sake. Demons who had worshipped at her feet and humiliated and flagellated themselves for her amusement. Those had been the days, when she'd feasted on lust and death and blood—before she'd been sundered and broken and forgotten. Now to humans she was just a smattering of loosely connected legends that blurred her greatness. Even many demons these days were ignorant of her power. But that was changing. Soon the world would be her oyster, and she'd break open its brittle hinges and swallow the salty, meaty center of it. _

Wine-red light gilded chocolate curls and peach-soft cheeks, bathed rose-petal lips and corpse-white eyes. A broken mirror in an ornate frame refracted the light into a prism of reds, creating a bloody rainbow. 

_Just one small task to complete first, one bird to clip and cage. A prize worth more than the world, hidden by rough disguise. Even now she could imagine her bird's little heart beating fast and furious with fear, wings beating fast and furious to escape. A fragile pet she could nurture or crush with a twist of her childish fist. Anticipation sent a thrill of excitement through her small body. Curious things, human bodies. Clumsy and slow and disgusting, they did have their good points—adrenaline and lust and hunger._

A small, cupid's bow mouth split into a smile that should have been mischevious in her child's face, but was instead carnivorous. Soft lips carefully formed the name that would one day call Lilith's prize to her.

_Samael._


	9. Sympathy: The Devil Inside

This is the second arc in the Watchers storyline. It picks up right after '3 Strange Days', so I just went ahead and put it under the same storyline. 

Summary: Dean's saved and now they both have to deal with the consequences. What does it mean to be Nephilim and what are their powers? 

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing worth suing me over, and certainly not Sam and Dean. 

PPPPLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEEEEE comment if you like this story. 

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Sympathy

Part 1: The Devil Inside

_Please allow me to introduce myself  
I'm a man of wealth and taste  
I've been around for a long, long years  
Stole many a man's soul and faith_

And I was 'round when Jesus Christ  
Had his moment of doubt and pain  
Made damn sure that Pilate  
Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you  
Hope you guess my name  
But what's puzzling you  
Is the nature of my game

_--Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones_

_**A woman screamed so loud it stabbed through the thick air, a dagger of misery…the wind sang a high-pitched cry as the ice broke with a resounding CRACK!, delicate lines radiating out like a spider's web, ice falling away in pieces to the fast-moving river below…corpse white eyes…the boy cried endlessly, wailing, sobbing, soggy and soft and shiny with tears…the dingy gray walls of the little room were painted with sticky brown-red blood that stood out in bold blotches and ran in delicate rivulets…individual hairs raising straight up in reaction to an unholy chill…the madman laughed in insane glee, the dark glint in his eye brightening with hellish joy as he sliced downward with the thick, sharp cleaver…a broken mirror…the crackle and grind of bone breaking and joints being cut apart, the fine spray of blood and tissue in the castoff…the crash of twisting, tortured metal and merry tinkle of breaking glass…a man wailing to the heavens 'Why, God!?Why!!'… crying… screaming… panting… wailing… writhing… moaning… laughing… living… dying. The sounds and sights all happening at the same time became a blur of white noise that stabbed and stabbed and stabbed at an already exhausted, sore brain.**_

I came to curled into the fetal position with my hands pressed over my eyes and Dean's deep voice in my ear.

"Come on, Sammy. It's alright, you're okay. Just wake up. _Come on_, Sammy!" There was enough desperation in Dean's deep voice to let me know that he'd been trying to wake me for quite some time.

Gradually I became aware of other things. The smooth cotton sheets underneath me that smelled of detergent and my own sweat and tears; Dean's strong hands on my arm and the back of my head, cradling me to his chest the way he had when I was a child and terrified of my nightmares. There was a presence _Bobby_ not far away, waiting patiently for me to calm down, and the sound of birds chirping and life moving outside my window. I could feel the sun pouring through that window to pool onto my bed even with my eyes closed, as if the sunlight had somehow gained mass and moved to comfort me as well. Between Dean and the sunlight, my nightmare began to fade away and I just breathed deeply for a minute, enjoying that brief moment when the nightmare was over before the pain started. 

That moment passed all too quickly and I soon became aware of a pain stabbing into my skull through my eyes, hot and cold at the same time, like sweat drying on fevered skin. I whimpered softly at the pain, and felt Dean's arms tighten around me. One tentative hand reached out and stroked my wings, and the gentle touch helped to sooth the pain to a manageable level almost as much as the steady th-thump th-thump of Dean's heart that I could hear underneath my head and in my soul. The connection I'd noticed the night before was still there and becoming stronger like a creek that widens into a river. I could _feel _Dean. 

Dean was worried—and irritated, and confused, and more than a little pissed. But despite it all, his love for me was a warm blanket that surrounded me, a strong wall that protected me. Not that his love for me would keep him from yelling at me when he thought I was up to it. I could almost _hear_ him think that I had had the nightmare just to put off 'the discussion' and piss him off even more.

And we did have to have 'the discussion'. When I'd stumbled in the night before and woken Dean, I'd been in a bad way. The blood loss and poison had drained me, and I had barely had time to explain anything before I passed out. I could only remember bits and pieces of the night after that. Dean's worry, and anger—glaring at his own wings as if they were alien to him (and I suppose they _were_)—Bobby's efficient first aid, hampered by Dean's interference as he insisted _he_ should take care of me; the sting and hiss of holy water cleansing the poison from my wounds. 

Truthfully, I wasn't not completely sure what I told them. I thought it was something along the lines of 'we're Nephilim now, Jess changed us, we're immortal, but not _bad_'. I only hope that Bobby can tell us more about what it meant to be Nephilim. He may have come across something in all his research. I hoped. 

"Sammy?" Dean asked. I had been quiet for a few moments; he must have realized I'd woken up.

"Dean." 

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that he let go of me so quickly. It was odd—Dean never had any problem protecting me or offering me comfort when necessary. But if I was awake and safe and semi-healthy, he became standoffish, almost as if he were ashamed to be caught caring for me. I think it was because he was afraid that I'd read him too well if he let me, though until recently I hadn't thought to even _try_ and figure it out. God, I'd been arrogant to assume Dean was one-dimensional, when, in truth, he was an incredibly complex person. The more I peeled back the layers of his persona, the more I find a kind, noble man so full of self-loathing and doubt that it was a wonder he wasn't crippled by his own distorted image of himself. Honestly, once I started really paying attention to Dean he became frighteningly easy to read. I wondered if my own vulnerability showed as clearly.

I slowly opened my sore eyes and squinted in the bright mid-morning light pooling on the bed like golden liquid full of lazily swirling motes. No, wait. Not all of that light came from the sun. There was a gentle golden glow shining through the colorful rug on the floor, and silver light peeked from behind the faded blue curtain—more of Bobby's wards. I'd always expected he had them hidden all over the place. Bobby himself looked much like he had the night before, both Bobby as he had been as long as I remembered, and the taller, wiser-looking version of him. The version that reminded me, oddly enough, of Gandalf from Tolkien. There was no robe or beard or staff, but there was that sense of ornery wisdom and implacable strength, the mien of a warrior-scholar. 

And then there was Dean. He looked like he had in Hell—Dean and yet _more_ Dean, brighter, stronger, perhaps even a bit taller. His dark hair glinted gold at its spiky tips, and his broad shoulders and strong neck were straight and proud. Dean's eyes were stunning and magnetic. Dean's eyes were perhaps his best feature, a lighter shade of green than my own, malachite that swirled and glinted and contrasted sharply with his sooty lashes. Somehow they were even more vivid than before; they almost seemed to glow. His wings, large and broad, built like an eagle's wings, were beautiful; deep crimson fading to a dark claret at the tips. In the light of day I could even see a bit of banding on the primary feathers. 

But, unlike he'd been in Hell, this Dean was _alive_ and full of emotion and expression and contradiction. Dean was _Deanish_. A wave of relief passed over me. I hadn't just been a dream. I'd _saved_ Dean. For the first time (the whole fucking year long) I'd had to be the protector, and I hadn't failed. I had nearly collapsed underneath the responsibility of having to my brother's savior; I had no idea how Dean had lived his whole life with that weight. He was Atlas, and I was the world—a burden he never complained about carrying.

"Sammy! Sammy, say something!" I came to realize that Dean had been calling my name for a while and I'd just been staring at him and Bobby like a moron.

"Sorry," I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, but was distracted again by the light emanating from beneath the rug. It was so delicate and soft, like strands of silk dancing on a breeze. So beautiful, and yet so deadly to any fell creature that should cross the hidden ward; those gentle strands would become as daggers, lancing up through the creature. 

My head was rocking back and forward, which just seemed to make the light dance more quickly. No, wait a minute; that was my entire upper body—Dean's hands were on my shoulders, searing hot, sweaty solid and shaking me. His brow knitted over his eyes and he was worried, angry. Anger was a natural reaction for Dean—it made things so much easier. But he had a hard time getting truly angry at me, and diffuse anger is a hollow egg that cracks easily.

"Stop shaking me!" Even to my ears I sounded petulant. 

"My God, Sammy. Your eyes…" My face was a cipher he had to solve, and he peered at it. In the background, I could see Bobby studying me in much the same way. 

"What about my eyes?" I had yet to have seen myself since my transformation; Dean still looked like Dean, with a few changes, so I had assumed that I was much the same. I thrill of fear hit me and I wondered if I had been wrong; what if I looked different, inhuman? 

"Why don't you look for yourself?" Bobby's gruff, no-nonsense voice rang out. It was a good idea. 

I stood up slowly, still a bit dizzy from my headache, and limped to the bathroom. Much to my embarrassment, I had to lean on Dean—my feet were still painfully cut and my ankle couldn't hold my weight; I only hoped it wasn't broken. The cuts on my hip, covered with thick gauze and presumably stitched up, tugged unpleasantly as I shifted skin and muscle, and my wrist ached dully. My wings throbbed numbly. Unlike Dean, who seemed to have shed all of his injuries when his soul bonded with his body, my wounds were still very real and would require time to heal. 

When I reached the bathroom and flicked on the lights (wincing at the painful fluorescence) the mirror seemed to jump out at me, take up more room than it truly, physically, did. I shivered as a chill passed over me, though I couldn't have said what bothered me so much. Then I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

Like Dean, I was myself, the same as I had always been, and yet much more. I looked brighter, stronger despite my wounds. My skin was smoother, glowing with a pale golden health that I had lost over the past couple of years to stress and grief and worry. The tattoo over my heart stood out in dark contrast. My hair looked silkier, healthier, shinier; the lines of my long limbs cleaner, straighter, my muscles lithe and fluid. Unlike Dean, I had lost a bit of bulk, but no more than a few pounds worth—the bulk that came from my widening skeletal system as I passed from adolescence into adulthood. The effect made me look a year or two younger than I truly was, particularly when paired with my boyish face. For the first time it occurred to me to wonder if Dean and I would continue to age, or if we would spend eternity looking like twenty-somethings. That wouldn't be an awful fate, but probably less convenient than passing for thirty-somethings.

Eventually I could procrastinate no longer and I looked into my own eyes. My features, so awkward during my teen years, had somehow morphed into a pleasant face with a scooped, pointed nose, a sharp chin, and a wide mouth. My face was undeniably boyish, particularly when paired with my shaggy hair and the dimples that had gotten me more than a few painful cheek pinches in my time. It was a decent face; kind of wholesome, all-American looking—except for my eyes. My eyes were oddly exotic; almond, cat-tilt eyes so dark a shade of hazel that they looked black until the light hit them just right. Eyes that looked so solemn and serious that I'd learned to hide them behind bangs when I was a kid to avoid the looks that my old-eyed young face sometimes got. Eyes that I'd long learned to use to my advantage when I wanted something despite my own misgivings about their oddness. Eyes that Jess had assured me were my best feature. 

That morning my eyes looked different. The irises were just a bit larger, making my eyes seem dramatically dark, more intense—no longer mere hazel, they were now dark jade that seemed to draw me into the depths of a deep, gentle pool of green. At its center the green was so dark it was impossible to tell where my iris ended and my pupil began—impossible to see if I even still _had_ a pupil. The green was ringed by a fringe of vibrant gold-brown. The color was too intense, too vivid to be human; my eyes resembled the catseye shells Dad used to use as wards. I shuddered slightly.

In my experience unusual eyes usually means something demonic. The animal-black eyes of lower-class demons; the red hellfire gaze of the crossroads demon; and, of course, the yellow-swirling toad eyes of Azazel. And now my own fathomless, liquid, intense eyes. What did it mean? Did it have anything to do with why I was seeing the things I was seeing?

"Dean—when you look around, what do you see?" I couldn't pull my trapped gaze off the mirror.

"What do you mean? Its Bobby's place; its just like its always been." Dean's voice managed to convey bewilderment, irritation, and worry all at the same time.

"That's all you see? You don't see anything…more?" My voice cracked slightly. I hadn't known what to expect from my new powers, or Dean's, but it hadn't occurred to me that I would be facing such a drastic change alone.

"No." Dean's tone had a finality to it that made me flinch a bit. "Sam; what do you see?" 

"I see Bobby's place, but I also see…light." It was hard to explain exactly what it was I saw, like explaining the color blue to a person who had been born blind.

"Light." 

I cast my gaze around the room, looking for an example. There, in the light fixture, a light blue glow that came from no light-bulb devised by man. 

"Bobby, you have a charm hidden in the light fixture, don't you?"

Bobby visibly started. "How'd you know that?"

"I can see it…I can see the power around it. They're all over the place. And everything's more vivid, sharper. And the house feels different. Warmer, almost like its sentient, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean's voice softened a little. "I don't _see_ anything, but I can feel something. Its like the house wants us here. I didn't even notice until you said something." Dean gave a small smile. "But I don't _see_ anything."

"That must be a new power you've got, Sam. The second sight—it'll be useful if it doesn't send you insane." I heard the worry under Bobby's irony.

"What do you mean 'insane'!" Dean was startled.

"From what I hear, people with the sight see all kinds of things. They see what's really there, more than even hunters or witches or psychics or, hell, _demons_. They have a tendency to go mad from it—but it's a rare power, so not much is known about it. You'd probably do better talking to Missouri about it than me, though." 

I heard Bobby's explanation but I was distracted again by the mirror. Something about it bothered me. It was plain, just a piece of glass stuck on the wall, and a bit worn and scratched. But there was something about it… . The more I stared at the mirror, the more I got a sense that I was looking not at a flat plane of glass but rather at my reflection in a deep pool of water—the kind of water that looked flat and featureless on the surface, but contained a whole other world just beneath the reflection. I could sense movement and intent that I couldn't see, and it scared me.

"Let's get out of here," I said suddenly. Bobby and Dean were both startled from their argument (Dean had reacted badly to Bobby's vague and ominous warning, but Bobby wasn't the kind of man to take crap from anybody—particularly someone he used to baby-sit). 

"Um, where do you want to go?" Dean sounded just a little lost at my apparent non-sequitor.

"Just out of the bathroom. Away from the mirror!" My voice rose a bit and the fear in my voice was clear. Dean gave me an odd look, but wasted no time in hustling me back into the bedroom. 

I collapsed shakily onto the bed, more than a bit embarrassed by my outburst like when I was a kid and afraid of the monster under my bed I _knew _didn't exist—but I was also relieved to be away from the mirror and in the sunlight again. 

"What'd you see?" Bobby's voice was quiet and perhaps a bit unsteady—though I don't know if he was worried about me or disturbed at the possibility that there was something in his home. 

"I…I don't know. I just felt like there was something there, you know? I didn't _see_ anything but my reflection, but there was something beneath it." 

"Well what the hell does that mean?" Dean was impatient and growing more irritated by the minute. He wanted answers and he didn't want to spend a lot of time getting there, but every moment seemed to throw a new distraction in the way.

"Well, some legends do say that mirrors are doorways between this world and other worlds. Maybe Sam wasn't seeing anything in particular—maybe he just sensed to doorway." 

That made sense. But it was creepy as hell—would I feel like that every time I tried to look in a mirror? I wasn't particularly vain and didn't spend a lot of time gazing at myself, but mirrors were everywhere, both utilitarian and decorative. 

"Okay, that's it! Sam's seeing and sensing all sorts of weird shit, I should be dead and I'm not, and we have fucking wings! I want some answers!" Dean's patience could only hold out so long. Understandable in this case.

"Dean, we all want answers. But maybe we should give Sam a few minutes to collect himself. Let's go get breakfast ready and we'll talk in a little bit." Bobby's voice was warm and persuasive and I must have looked bad off, because Dean reluctantly agreed to go with him. 

The next few minutes were painful and slow. I tried to pull a tee-shirt on, but was hampered by my wings. I reached back and found gauze wrapped tightly around the base where the nails had been driven through bone and muscle. The gauze was itchy and uncomfortable and prevented me from retracting my wings (I didn't want it stuck in my back), but I was loathe to remove it when I couldn't even see the wounds well. I'd have to get Bobby or Dean to look at them later. The wounds themselves were sore and aching, but there was no sense of sharp tearing. Hopefully they'd heal alright. 

I could only put off the upcoming conversation so long, and Dean did deserve his answers, so I began to limp out into the hallway to the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall and trying not to put any weight on my bum ankle or wrist. Damn, I hoped I hadn't broken any bones. 

When I reached the stairway I paused and inhaled the scent of eggs and bacon and breakfast, salty and hot. I gathered my strength for the painful climb down. I didn't have to make it by myself, though; no sooner had my foot touched the first step, as I leaned heavily on the banister, than Dean poked his head around the corner at the foot of the stairs and saw me. 

"Dammit Sam! What are you thinking!? Hold still." And he gave me no time to argue before he ran up the stairs and shoved his way up under my arm, taking the bulk of my weight. It was a relief to get the weight off of my sore ankle, even if it did jolt my aching wrist a bit. 

Dean took my weight effortlessly, which was new. Dean had always been strong and I wasn't exactly overweight, but 6'4" of bone and muscle was heavy. I had a flashback to Dean pulling at the limb of the demon tree until he broke it off—a thick limb that I couldn't even budge. I wondered if his ease at practically carrying me came from my missing bulk or if he truly was stronger. And that wasn't all. In the bathroom I had noticed that Dean seemed taller—standing next to him I realized that it wasn't an illusion. He _was_ taller. At least an inch or two taller than the 6'1" he had been a few days before. Dean gave me a weird look—he knew something was different, but I didn't think he'd realized what it was. The increased height would at least make him feel a bit happier about the whole Nephilim thing. Small victories keep the world turning.

Dean fussed at me the whole way down the stairs, releasing some of his anxiety, but his hands were gentle and my ankle felt much better with less weight on it. This close our wings couldn't help but brush against one another and I felt Dean give a sharp intake of breath. My wings were so new, so sensitive, that even the slightest touch felt intimate, naked. Who knew that feathers were so enervated? The skin of the wings was sensitive enough, but it was as if each feather was full of nerve endings that picked up the slightest breeze, which only exponated the sense of touch—imagine if each hair on your head could _feel_. The satin-silk of Dean's feathers tickled my own. I could only assume Dean's wings were equally responsive. Dean was clearly uncomfortable with his wings and got me to the kitchen as quickly as he could.

Breakfast started out tense. There was greasy bacon and fluffy eggs and sweet oranges and hash browns and rich, earthy coffee and normally Dean would have been in hog heaven. Bobby sure knew how to cook. But my brother was still too pissed and bewildered and pissed _about_ being bewildered to enjoy the meal. Dean and I sat on backless stools in deference to our wings and it finally occurred to me that Dean probably hadn't figured out how to retract his wings yet. 

"Dean." My voice was bit meek—the same tone I'd used as a child when I knew I was in trouble. It annoyed me to hear it in my voice now, but I couldn't help it. Something in me recognized Dean as the alpha of our little pack and while I was hardly a pushover, I did look up to him and I hated it when he was mad at me—_especially_ when he had a right to be.

"What?" Dean was a bit harsh, but I don't think he even noticed.

"There's a muscle in your back, right between your shoulder blades. Arch your back and pull on that muscle."

"What?"

"Just…try it."

Dean glared, but he trusted me. He arched his back and pulled and slowly his wings started to retract back into his body. It seemed to be different for him than it was for me. It was a much slower, more awkward process, and there was a sound of cracking and bone shifting. Dean gritted his teeth and let out a low, strangled cry. Sweat popped out on his forehead and I was alarmed at the amount of pain he seemed to be in. But even though he took longer to retract his wings than me, it was still over in about a minute. Dean sat there, panting, but no longer in pain and with his wings fully hidden. He caught his breath and glared at me.

"What the hell, Sam?"

"I'm sorry—it didn't hurt me so much." I'd been honestly surprised. The process had felt weird for me, but not painful. Dean, on the other hand, had to hurt like hell to make that noise. 

"What didn't…" Dean's voice trailed off as he realized that he was no longer overshadowed by his wings. He turned his head to look behind him and twisted to see the two slits in his back, identical to my own, that were the openings for his now hidden wings. They were still new, tender and pink, but hopefully they'd heal and become tougher over time. There was something vaguely obscene about the sight of wings disappearing into those slits or coming out of them, but there was no denying that it was useful to be able to hide the huge appendages.

"Well, fuck me." Wonder had replaced the irritation in Dean's tone. "We can still fit in the impala!" 

Bobby gave a snort of laughter that was contagious, and I couldn't help but break into chuckles of my own. Trust Dean to become a supernatural creature and be most disturbed by the idea that he couldn't fit into the impala with wings. It didn't take long for Dean to join us and the tension broke, making the second half of the meal much more pleasant. 

For a few wonderful moments I was able to forget everything that was happening. We relaxed and joked and even if Bobby and Dean didn't look directly at me (my wings were still out). It was like it was in the old days, before anyone was brought back from the dead and demons played such a big role in our lives and there was the sepia-nostalgic feel of _home_. Hard to believe that our first demon exorcism, the phantom traveler, was only three years before. That before that we hadn't even known what the thing that killed Mom was. It _felt_ as though we'd been fighting demons forever. But in those days before, Dean and I had been so close and getting closer. It felt like every time we got close to being real brothers again, something happened that drove us apart; or just _tore_ us apart, rending our minds and our souls 'til they were as scarred as our bodies. 

As pleasant as breakfast ended up being, it had to end sometime. Eventually Dean ran out of things to eat and sat there, sipping his cooling coffee. He had a dark look on his face and inside he was a swirl of emotions—longing, anger, fear. He turned his bright eyes toward me and gave a look that said it all. That said I better talk. And so I did.

I talked for what felt like hours. I told Dean about Jess, about meeting her when I died over a year ago, about meeting her again when Dean died. About choosing to become a Nephilim, and searching Hell for him. About finding him and bringing him home. And then I waited for his reaction.

Dean's not always predictable, particularly when it comes to emotional things. Nine times out of ten he'll avoid 'chick flick moments' like the plague, but that tenth time…that tenth time he could do anything. He could blow up with that rage he tried so hard to repress, or blame himself for something that was in no way his fault, or get this devastated look on his face that cut me to the core; or he could be quite reasonable. That day he chose to be reasonable.

"So, we're Nephilim. What does that mean, specifically, for us? Do we have powers? We're immortal, but can we be killed? More specifics, Sammy." He wasn't looking at me and I was worried that this was the calm before the storm.

"Jess said that we would have powers. I…I've already had a couple of visions, and I'm seeing things. You…she said your powers might develop more slowly, but that you would have them." 

Dean gave me a dark look at the mention of visions, then went back to staring into his quickly cooling coffee. Bobby had cleared the table and was washing dishes a few feet away, trying to look as though he wasn't listening though I could practically feel his attention like a weight on my shoulders.

"I don't know if we can be killed. I assume we can, since demons can. The colt or Ruby's knife, if nothing else. I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't want to turn us into something supernatural, but I thought it was the best way. I…I'm glad I didn't trust Ruby, that wouldn't have worked, so I did what I had to do. I couldn't live without you. As pathetic as that may sound, I've lived without you before and I couldn't do it again." I gave a slight shudder at the memory of that long Wednesday.

"Like hell. What about door number two, Sammy?! Door number two!" Dean's voice and face were hard.

"Wha…"

"You could have gone back to your normal little life and been happy! Human and happy! It might not have been perfect, but it would have been better." He was truly pissed off. It always startled me how much Dean put me before himself. Like it was natural—he would have been shocked at the suggestion that most brothers don't do that, at least not to the degree he did. As if selling your soul for your brother was as common and reasonable as lending him money.

"It wouldn't have been better! You would still have been in hell! I couldn't let that happen, and I didn't want to. No, Dean, that wasn't the solution." Dean may have been the alpha of our little pack, but I inherited stubborn from Dad, same as Dean. And no one can do stubborn like a Winchester, human or not. 

"I thought that was what you wanted, Sammy. A normal life. You could have been happy!" Dean's anger deflated quickly and he sounded dangerously close to despair. I wondered what was going on in that head of his.

"That was what I wanted—when I was eighteen. I was eighteen and pissed at Dad and tired of being scared. I thought life would be better if I was 'normal'. But Dean, I've changed. I've changed a lot in the last few years. I don't think I even want 'normal' anymore; I don't know what it is, but it isn't something that I can ever have and still be _me_. As weird as it may sound, I'm more _me_ as a Nephilim than I would have been as a tax attorney. And it wouldn't be worth anything if it cost you your soul. As for happy…if everyone I loved were dead or a stranger to me, how could I possibly be happy? Normal isn't the answer for me; it never was."

"And the visions? Painful death visions and God knows what other powers…that is the answer? And what visions have you had?" He was angry again that I hadn't mentioned my visions before. I knew they really freaked him out and made him feel helpless. He couldn't fight the pain for me or make them stop. He could only watch and hope I could handle it, and that wasn't easy for Dean. He wasn't a 'watching and hoping' kind of guy; Dean was all flash and heart and action.

"Jess said that the visions are a part of me and always have been. I just have to learn to deal with them, and whatever other powers come along. We'll learn together." I could feel my face morph into its pleading-sincere look; it was look Dean had never been able to resist, and he couldn't that morning either. 

"Tell me about your visions." His voice was starting to take on that angry-but-not-really, defeated tone he'd used when I got my way as a kid (fine, eat the last of the Lucky Charms!). Dean never could stay mad at me. 

"The first was in Hell. I saw…you. I saw you, on that throne in Belial's court. Just bits and pieces, it was really quick. The second…"

"Your nightmare," Dean prompted impatiently.

"It was…strange."

"Be a little bit more descriptive, Sam. That was a hell of a nightmare. It took me ten minutes to wake you up! What's going to happen?"

"I…I can't…"

"You better damn well! No more keeping secrets." I winced—I still had a few more secrets and I wasn't sure I'd ever want to reveal them. Though with the rate our connection was strengthening I wondered how much longer either of us could keep secrets from the other—I could feel Dean's worry-anger pulse-pulse-pulsing.

"No, I'm not trying to keep a secret. It was just too much! It was _confusing_. It was like I wasn't having _a _vision. It was like I was having ten visions at once. I couldn't tell where one ended and the next began." 

Dean's face took on a strained look. He was worried at the new change in my abilities, and anxious about his own possible powers, and still irate and pissed off. He had too much energy to sit still and stood quickly, pacing. His footsteps echoed like a metronome on the wood floor and Bobby gave Dean a careful glance before finishing the dishes. I simply sat on my stool like a repentant child trying not to look at Dean. He had a lot to take in and my staring wouldn't help at all. 

"Well what the fuck does that mean! Dammit Sam!"

"I don't _know_, okay! I don't know what it means! I don't know what will happen! I don't know how many powers we'll have or what they'll be! I wish I knew but I don't!" I often struck out when I felt cornered and guilty, and this was no different.

"Well don't you think you should have thought about that _before_ you turned us into monsters!"

"We're not monsters! And besides, what did _you_ think was gonna happen when you sold your soul?! That I was gonna say thanks and goodbye and move on with my life? How was I supposed to move on knowing you were in Hell because of me, when you couldn't even move on when I was just plain dead—not going to Hell, not suffering at all, and all my own damn fault!"

"Sam, getting _stabbed in the back _was not your fault." Dean's voice took on an aggravated tone.

"YES IT WAS! It was because I had him! I had Jake at my mercy and I let him go! I was soft—WEAK—and I got killed because of it! You had to save me AGAIN—to sell your SOUL—because I was too weak and too stupid to finish Jake off when I had the chance! And I couldn't do it, man. I couldn't let you pay for my own stupidity." 

I hadn't meant to reveal that. I admit that more than once I took advantage of Dean's emotion-phobia to hide my own deepest darkest secrets and fears, and I was better at it than most people. I was good enough at it that this latest unintended revelation floored Dean. For about 2 seconds. Then the anger hit.

"THAT'S ABOUT THE _STUPIDEST_ THING I'VE EVER HEARD! DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING BLAME YOURSELF FOR THAT, DO YOU HEAR ME!? _DO YOU!?_" 

On that last 'do you' Dean slammed his hands down on the kitchen table. The thick oak split and a lightening-jagged crack ran right through the center of the table. At the same time the kitchen windows in front of Bobby exploded outward as if a bomb had gone off. Luckily all of the glass fragments were blown outward, protecting Bobby from the sharp dagger edges. 

The kitchen was utterly silent for a few moments. All three of us froze in shock, anger forgotten. Then Dean's face crumpled. I swear I thought he was going to cry—the first time I'd thought so since we were both young children. In fact, I didn't remember ever actually seeing Dean cry. I knew he did, but crying and letting me _see_ him cry were two different things.

"What the fuck was that!?" 

"I think that was you boys losing your temper. I'm gonna have to ask you to control yourselves better while you're in my house." Bobby's words were wry, but his voice shook. It couldn't be easy for him to acknowledge that we weren't human anymore, even to himself. I think we were the closest thing to family that Bobby had for a very long time. 

Dean collapsed into the closest chair and lean forward, head in his hands. Over that link I could feel his fear pulsing, _pulsing, __**pulsing**_. He was scared—scared of his new powers, scared of himself. I could relate.

"I did that! I just did that! I fucking blew out the windows with my mind. I…I felt it." Dean's voice was a broken whisper. "I felt it in my mind. What is this thing inside me?"


	10. Sympathy: The Devil on the Hill

Disclaimer: I do not own Sam. I do not own Dean. I do not own anything worth suing me over. So don't.

Warning: Um...some nudity and a lot of descriptors.

Summary: Sam and Dean travel to a person who may become an ally or a foe. Sam dreams along the way.

For everyone who's been reading, I'd like to apologize for the long update. I know how much it sucks to wait so long for an updated (I do it all the time!). Its been really hectic around here and pretty much all my side-projects just had to be put on the back-burner. Things have calmed down for while, so hopefully I'll be able to catch up.

blackjackmunted: I'm glad you like the story! I plan to keep working on it.

ukfan101: Thanks! I'm glad it was worth the wait—hopefully this chapter will be too!

BeautifulAli: Groovy :3 .

Dani Fitzroy: Thanks for the high praise. Expect to see more about the powers soon, and more Lilith along the way. I don't know what the show's gonna do with her, but she'll play a major role in my story.

Nyx Wings: I'm glad you like the story so much. "It's dark and bloody and kinda sensual too, especially the bits with Belial." That's exactly what I was going for. I love Bobby, too. He's such a great character. I loved that Christmas episode where we saw Sam give Dean the amulet. I think that was a very important moment for their relationship. Expect to learn more about the powers soon, and you'll definitely see more Lilith.

Arid Tundra: I'm glad you like! I was actually thinking of turning Sam and Dean into angels, but I decided to go with Nephilim because I like the whole human struggle thing. They might become all serene at some point way, way in the future, but he'll have to work for it like everyone else. I think part of the reason I'm not getting many reviews is because my story is so long. I always look for long stories when I browse, but I think a lot of people prefer drabble, and there's so much of that to choose from.

* * *

Sympathy

Part 2: The Devil on the Hill

_I watched with glee  
While your kings and queens  
Fought for ten decades  
For the gods they made_

I shouted out,  
"Who killed the Kennedys?"  
When after all  
It was you and me

Let me please introduce myself  
I'm a man of wealth and taste  
And I laid traps for troubadours  
Who get killed before they reached Bombay

_--Sympathy for the Devil, by the Rolling Stones_

Lust. Sloth. Envy. Gluttony. Wrath. Pride. Greed. The seven deadly sins. We Winchesters were familiar with them, both literally and figuratively. Dean had taken to lust at puberty like a bird to flight. Dad and I had both let wrath control us at times. Envy was my specialty—envying people who lived 'normal, safe' lives kept me going as an angsty emo teen. We were proud, too, the kind of proud born out of stubborn and grit and determination. But everyone has their brushes with the seven deadly sins. Winchesters were prone to a sin worse than any of these. We were prone to despair.

Despair's a sneaky sin. It masquerades as grief or worry or anger and rarely ever shows its true face. It can sink its teeth into a soul slowly, bit by bit, or all at once, like a shark attack. And all that is left is pain. Pain and hopelessness so intense that it blocks out everything else. It leaves the soul shattered; hollow. A person consumed by despair is, above all else, selfish.

When people hear about despair, they think of depression. Of sadness and suicide. But that's just despair when its turned inwards. Turned outward despair leads to murder, torture, genocide. It is the driving force behind terrorism and racism, the bitter taste left when faith dies. It is ashes and bare bones and melancholic hatred.

Dad very nearly gave in to despair when Mom died; very nearly let it consume him. I think the only reason he didn't was Dean and me. He couldn't quite let himself become a soulless demon-hunting machine because he had to look out for us. I think he resented us for that sometimes. It is so much easier to give into despair than to fight it, and a part of him wanted to do just that. His love for Dean and me was stronger than his despair, but just barely, and the bloody tinge of despair became as much a part of him as his world-weary eyes or the dimples we so rarely saw.

I think Dean's flirted with despair his whole life. He hides it behind lust and sarcasm, a brittle self-destructive wall bound to break; but its there. And it's just become stronger and stronger since Dad died; since _I_ died. Like a drunk who constantly sips from a flask, Dean has secretly nursed his despair for years, and for the longest time I had no clue.

As for me, I flirted with despair after Jess died, when I learned that I was 'destined' to become evil; but Dean was always there to distract me, to support me, to drive away the darkness. It was only the last year that despair was truly able to sink its sharp claws into me; when I was faced with the loss of my big brother. My unsinkable rock.

That was the year I stopped praying. The year I stopped smiling. The year I decided that mercy was too great a risk. The year I gave up hope and dreams and faith. The year I sacrificed all of those things in the name of despair.

Now Dean was alive. Immortal, in fact. I wanted to let the despair go. But as easily as despair can sneak up on you, it is so _hard_ to let it go. It's like an addiction.

I think it was even harder for Dean to let it go. I don't think he knew how, and I wasn't sure he even wanted to. He was so confused about what it meant to be a Nephilim. He didn't want to be anything but human. For so long he equated 'supernatural' with 'evil' and now _he_ was supernatural. For so long he'd refused to believe in angels or God or Heaven, and now he owed his existence to an angel. I think that might have been the hardest part for him to believe. Because believing that I'd seen an angel would mean admitting that he'd been wrong. Admitting that there was a God—one who allowed all of the supernatural evils to exist; one who had allowed Mom to die.

Now with new powers we didn't know how to control and despair nipping at our heels—well, it made for one tense car ride.

Dean had Black Sabbath blasting high on the radio and he was clenching the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. Rain pelted the windshield in a blitz attack, but that didn't stop Dean from speeding. Nor did the hairpin turns that wound up the mountainside, sinuous as a sidewinder.

My Sight made it all a little more nauseating—the pelting rain broke on the windshield in a dazzling array of colors and phantom shapes dotted the landscape. There were places full of life and magic, places dead and dark. It was getting harder to tell what was really there and what was a memory imprinted on the world; I was _sure_ that was what I was seeing—echoes of what had been, or of what would come. It was maddening in the truest sense of the word, and all I could do was turn my gaze into the car, to the worn leather and dash that exuded its own warm light, its own familiarity.

My jaw was clenched with tension and anxiety (only partly over the likelihood that we would crash), but I was loath to say anything to my brother. He was walking the wire's edge and it wouldn't take him much to fall right over. I could only hope the name Bobby had given us would pan out.

Max Long. A hermit who lived in the Appalachians, supposedly for years. Not just five or ten or twenty years, but as long as anyone could remember or tell stories of. There were stories of the hermit on the hill dating back to colonial times, including a legend about the man sleeping for decades before waking up covered in beard growth and leaves; supposedly the source of the Rip Van Winkle legend. The locals respected him the way you'd respect a wild animal that has never attacked you, but might at any moment. They were smart enough to be polite on the rare occasions they had to interact with him and leave him alone the rest of the time. They called him a devil, not a man.

Bobby had first come across legends of the hermit years ago, but he'd decided not to hunt the man because, quite frankly, he wasn't attacking anyone. Whether the legends were true or not, there were no records of unusual deaths or disappearances or anything remotely harmful related to the man or the area. As Bobby put it, he had better things to hunt.

In fact, Bobby had almost forgotten about the legends until about a year ago. The man's name came up when he was trying to fix the colt. Ruby had taken the gun to Long. Bobby wasn't sure exactly what she'd said to the hermit or what the hermit had done to the gun, but when she returned the gun had gone from a nice antique to a demon-killing weapon against the darkness. Bobby didn't know if the man was a Nephilim, but legend made it clear he was an immortal of some kind. Perhaps he would be able to help us. Perhaps he would be willing.

I didn't know how I felt about going to someone who had helped Ruby. It wasn't like she'd been trustworthy. Mad, greedy, and ambitious, she'd very nearly taken Dean's soul and turned me into her puppet-king. Still, the man had helped repair the colt, which had proven invaluable to us. And she had fooled me, and very nearly Dean; perhaps Long had been fooled as well. We would just have to see if he could be trusted.

I may not have known how I felt about Max Long, but Dean sure did. He hated the idea of going to one of Ruby's allies and was tempted to use the colt on_ him_. He hated feeling like he had to go crawling to some creature to help him control his own mind and body. He hated the position I'd put him in. I was frightened that a part of him hated _me_. And I couldn't blame him for that. I felt his anger and tension pulsing out over our connection.

That connection had only grown stronger over the last few days, and I wondered how strong it would become. How long before it interfered with our ability to think independently. Because I _knew_ that Dean felt it too. He hadn't said anything and I hadn't been brave enough to bring the subject up, but every now and then he'd look at me or react to a strong emotion I had before I could say anything or even react to it myself. Even mad at me, he took care to make sure I wasn't too depressed or upset or 'emo'. He didn't always do it _well_—lame jokes and raunchy stories weren't my cup of tea—but the intent was clear and enough in and of itself.

"Gonna have to get gas soon," Dean ground out.

I winced in anticipation. I'd learned the hard way the first time we stopped for gas that as much as I Saw in the wilderness and rural areas, places where people lived were much, much worse. There was too much to See and it all pooled into a dazzling array of color that had form and mass and texture; that I could feel pressing against me, into me, into my pores— intimate and unnerving. I scrunched down in my seat and closed my eyes tight, biting back a groan of discomfort as I shifted my sore hip and ankle.

I had gotten lucky with the ankle. A veterinarian friend of Bobby's had been willing to see me. Bobby had saved Dr. Adams from a black dog some years before. The man was small, myopic, and balding and he loved the idea of being involved in the 'war against evil', if only in a support position. Since then, he'd been Bobby's personal physician for wounds he couldn't take to the hospital.

Dr. Adams had pronounced the ankle merely sprained. I had not been so lucky with the wrist, and it was now firmly locked in a cast. A stiff, itchy cast that would be on my arm for at least 6 weeks, wrapped in an itchy sling that cut into the tender skin of my neck. Still, it could have been worse; I could have been on crutches. It was painful to hobble around on my sprained ankle, but it would have killed my side and slowed me down to have to use crutches. In my line of work, 'slowed down' means vulnerable and vulnerable all too often means dead.

As luck as I had been with my ankle, I was even luckier that Dr. Adams owed Bobby; that he knew how to keep secrets. Turned out that my bones were no longer like human bones. As I'd expected, they were hollow, or at least semi-hollow. The bones of my ankle and wrist were full of air sacs and cross-bracings, making the bones much lighter than normal human bones (as I'd noticed) and more flexible, but very nearly as strong. Interestingly Dean, who I browbeat into getting his arm x-rayed for comparison, had dense, human-looking bones.

That was as much as the doctor was allowed to x-ray, though he dearly wanted to do a full work-up on me. I actually considered it—it would be useful to know how my anatomy had changed—but between Bobby's gruff anger and Dean's hostile glare the doctor had backed off. Perhaps one day I would let him do that work-up; after all, it wasn't like I could just go to _any_ doctor anymore. Not unless I wanted to end up locked up in a laboratory. And I was not nearly as offended as Dean that Dr. Adams seemed to consider me a 'fascinating specimen' (I thought Dean would cold-cock the man when he called me that); I would probably feel the same way in his place.

"You okay?" There was reluctant concern in Dean's husky voice as worry warred with disgruntlement.

"I'm fine. Let's just do this quickly, okay?"

"Why don't you get some sleep? It'll still take us a few hours to get there."

I didn't want to. I'd only slept a few hours in the past three days, and each time I'd been beset by nightmare visions. Like that first time, they were so jumbled up I couldn't make sense of them and they were becoming, if anything, stronger. It was like one endless horror movie montage, only so much worse because the horror was real rather than Hollywood glitz and glamour. But I had to sleep sometime and I would be seeing nightmarish things anyway once we approached civilization. Even small towns were painful for me—I wondered if I'd ever be able to visit a large city again. I could not imagine the effect New York or LA or New Orleans would have on me, could not imagine the things I'd See.

I made a sound of acceptance and tried to find a comfortable position. It was hard for me to do so on the best of days—few places and even fewer cars comfortably house a 6'4" frame—but exhaustion would soon put me to sleep anyway. It was unfair that I was so tired and Dean, who had gotten even less sleep than me, seemed refreshed. He claimed it was because I was injured and he was not, but I wondered. Perhaps along with superhuman strength he'd gained superhuman stamina. Heh. He'd like that.

The droning of the car was hypnotic and after a while I stopped noticing how I swayed when the car ripped around a curve. There was an embryonic comfort to the motion, the smell of home in the leather. The seat was soft and warm and embraced me, and I relaxed despite my injuries. My mind drifted and I started to think about Dean.

He'd definitely gained a couple of inches. I think he noticed when he got in the car, but he didn't say anything. Still in denial a bit. So far he seemed to have only two powers—strength and telekinesis. Maybe that was really only one power; maybe his new strength was actually an unconscious use of his telekinesis. That made sense. Over the past two days Dean had several accidents—broken dishes, knocked over furniture, thrown around car parts without ever touching them—but his use of telekinesis was still tentative. He wasn't comfortable with it and didn't want to end up like Max, desperate and mad on his own power.

The new strength Dean displayed was much more consistent and easier for him to get used to. I think he even enjoyed it. He could run faster, farther; pick up things no human should be able to pick up with ease; hit harder, throw further. He was way past Batman, and heading into Superman territory. And, of course, he could fly.

It hadn't been my imagination that it was much more painful for Dean to manipulate his wings than it was for me. Pushing them out, pulling them in was hard for his stronger but far more brittle wings. I think it was because my wings were hollow. Unlike Dean, I was no stronger than ever, nor did I seem any more telekinetic. I hypothesized that it was Dean's telekinesis as much as anything that allowed him to fly, so it didn't matter how much he weight. Since I had little to no telekinesis, my body had had to adjust for flight, to become lighter. With that lightness came a flexibility that allowed me to easily hide and reveal my wings; a flexibility that Dean simply did not have. He made up for that lack with his strength and telekinesis.

I had insisted that we both practice flying. Not a skill that could be used just anywhere, but definitely a useful one. Kind of a get-out-of-jail-free card if we got cornered. Dean didn't like it, at least at first, but he couldn't argue with the practicality.

Once he got into the air Dean discovered a love for flying that surprised even him. My brother, terrified by airplanes, loved to fly? But he did. When he could rely on his own wings (or his telekinesis), he found it thrilling and it didn't take him long to start doing loop-de-loops and dives that would make an eagle envious. His broad, strong wings caught the air with ease and he had a kind of joy on his face that I'd seen since before Dad died when he just let go and let the wind carry him.

He was beautiful like that. More than any human could be, more like a wild creature, fierce and free and fearless. Its Dean's nature to be that way, a true free spirit; how he was meant to be. Over the last few years everything—the Demon and Dad and my death and the Deal—had held him back, pulled him down, and buried that spirit under worry and hate and fear and loss. It peeked through when he was flying like the glitter of gold under a layer of greasy black-green tarnish; hidden but not destroyed.

I could picture him wings spread, _tall and proud and fierce. He was a warrior prince, a paladin and yet at the same time still Dean, irreverent and playful. His eyes blazed bright green with joy and life and he moved with a leonine grace. His wings were a brighter red than I'd seen before, crimson as blood and passion and salty-sweet life. Darker banding on the primary feathers made the broad wings look even longer than their 6'6" and Dean carried a sword in one hand and a gun in the other. The sword blazed with a pure gold light like a small sun and the light gilded his features. The gun looked like the colt, but it was paler, cleaner; a pearlescent sheen reflected the glow of the sword. Dean looked like an angel; a protector of man, the fist of God. He was justice personified._

_To either side of Dean and slightly behind him stood…me. Two me's. The me to the right stood tall and proud as Dean, solemn to his joyful, but in a peaceful way. The me's hair was longer, hanging in shaggy waves to just below my shoulders, and brighter with more red in the chestnut. He moved with a grace and ease I scarcely recognized in myself. I'd long since grown out of my awkward teenage clumsiness (hey—you try growing two feet in three months!) and I could fight better than most, but I'd never considered myself graceful. I had a tendency to hunch over, to hide my giraffe-esque proportions behind my inhibitions. But the me in my dream had no problem unfurling to his full height._

_The wings on the me to the right were different from my current wings; the gold-brown-black had shifted to a dark jade-emerald green. The longer primary feathers were dark green around the shaft, but tipped with a brilliant gold. The me's eyes shown with the same colors, and a kind smile graced his face. The me on the right had no visible weapons, but stood by Dean fearlessly none-the-less. _

_Both Dean and the me to the right looked clean somehow; pure and fresh and how we were meant to be. The me on the left was different; he was a black hole that could absorb that goodness and purity and reflect back only flat emptiness. He was pale, his hair long and stringy and dark. His eyes had darkened as well, so that the green was almost black and the gold had a harsh, alien quality. The me to the left stooped a bit, but not enough to hide the muscles and scars he had—far more than the me to the right. He wore a hard, unforgiving expression; the kind that made it seem as if he'd never felt joy in his whole life. He reminded me of the way I was when the Trickster killed Dean on that long Wednesday. As for his wings, the me to the left had black wings. So black they didn't have any sheen; not even a hint of gold or green. They were ragged and sharp and rough. _

_The me to the left had his own version of the colt clutched tight in his left hand. It had blackened and cracked and was covered in brown-red blood and rust. In his right hand he bore a cruelly curved knife, serrated near the hilt with long sharp teeth meant to hold and tear flesh. It, too, was bloodstained; it let off a sickly white light that felt like corpses and pestilence. _

_I stared at the three of us for several long minutes and the figures held still as a portrait. Then I felt a cold gaze upon me. It was the me on the left. I met his soulless eyes and shuddered at the toothy shark smile I got in return. _

_The me on the left turned his gaze to Dean and his predatory smile widened. His grip tightened on the wicked knife and his shifted his stance, preparing to attack. I wanted to scream, to warn Dean, to do something, but I was just an observer; I had no power in this dream. The me on the right, however, did._

_He turned his gaze to the me on the left and his eyes widened in visceral fear; the kind of fear that has nothing to do with personal survival and everything that has to do with fear for another. Even as the me on the left lunged forward, knife raised high, ready to drive the blade into the unprotected area between Dean's wings, the me on the right threw himself in front of the blade. _

_I fully expected to see the knife driven deep into the me on the right's heart, cutting through tender flesh and snapping bone—but it didn't happen. As they two me's touched a bright light flared and sizzled and they cancelled each other out. The light grew, blinding me momentarily and hiding the tableau from my gaze._

_When the light dimmed and my sight cleared, I was alone. The place I was in could only be described as a desert, and yet that word did not describe it well at all. As lifeless as they can seem, deserts actually teem with life. There are all kinds of plants and animals and insects that call the desert home. There was nothing in that place. _

_The sky was a flat vacuum black, the ground was dust and stone and bones. It should have been too dark to see, but I could; it seemed I could see forever, for the horizon was flat and motionless in every direction. It was silent, a quiet so deep that I felt smothered by it. And it was cold—I could feel the heat leaving my body, being absorbed through my skin, out of my bones. I shivered, but even my body's natural reaction didn't seem to produce any heat. This place was death. _

_I heard a noise behind me and froze. Slowly I turned my head to look over my shoulder, wary about what I would find. All that was there was a mirror. A, large, simple rectangle of glass that reflected my own battered, ragged image back at me. I moved to turn all the way around and stepped on a fragile, dry bone; it _snapped_ under my heel and I looked down. It was a femur, a human thigh bone. I wondered if the person it belonged to had died where I was, looking into that mirror. _

_I let my gaze return to the mirror slowly and was met by a pair of wide-set white eyes surrounded by dusky lashes and set in a beautiful face, pale and fine boned. Her mouth was small and full, a dark, dull red. Long wavy hair black as oil wound sinuously down the woman's pale naked body. She had long, slender dancer's limbs that managed to be both muscular and delicate. Her slim shoulders were pulled back and she had the posture of a queen or a ballerina; her small, firm breasts were tipped with hard nipples that had the lightest blush of mulberry red. Her waist was tiny, so small I knew I could fit my hands all the way around it; it flared out into wide, feminine hips. She was easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I could not stop the instant flare of lust that sparked deep in my guts and ran through my bloodstream like a drug._

_Her eyes had no pupil, no iris, no sclera; they were like demon eyes in reverse. Yet somehow I could still tell that she was looking at me. Her eyes trailed down my body, much like I had eyed hers (I realized to my embarrassment), and she gave a small, mocking smile. The scent of lilies filled the air and the woman shifted her stance. She leaned back so that her hips were thrust forward through the veil of her hair, delicate bone straining against velvet skin. Her breast were pushed upward, small nipples pointing into the air, and my lust grew deeper. Her smile widened and she spread her arms to me invitingly. I was tempted, so tempted, to walk to her, through the mirror; I knew somehow that it would yield to me. But I didn't; I couldn't. I couldn't forget Jessica, couldn't forget the difference between the love I'd felt for her and the lust I felt now. I couldn't abandon Dean; and it would be an abandonment, because I _knew_ that if I went through the mirror, to her arms, I would not be coming back. I shook my head, trying to shake away the lust and dull confusion the way a dog shakes away dirty water. _

_Her smile turned sharp and her brow came down as I resisted her. A soft laugh filled the air like a winter breeze and a _cracking_ sound rent the air. A pair of cold, strong hands broke through the ground to wrap around my ankle and I realized that I was naked, even though I hadn't been a moment before. I looked down at the hands that bound me. They weren't human. They had the basic shape right, but they were made of some kind of white, bony material. There were no obvious joints or sockets, but the hands moved with ease, fluid despite their strength. The sharpened tips of the fingers dug into my ankles and calves and the pricks of pain further drove away my arousal. Shadows fell on the ground in a distinctive pattern and I looked up to see curving bars of the same white material the hands were made of, stark against the black sky. The bars stretched far overhead to meet at a center point, before crossing over and dipping back to the ground, no more than a 6 inches apart in any direction. The bars circled me and I realized that I was in a birdcage. _

_I looked back to the mirror only to see that the woman had moved closer. Her hand was stretched forward, reaching out of the mirror toward my face. I felt a sudden rush of terror as strong as my earlier arousal. The lily scent suddenly made me think of funerals, and I knew that this woman was as much death as this barren world. Despite it all, I still felt my lust returning, no matter how I tried to hold it off. _

"_Don't fight me, my love; you'll enjoy it. Don't fight me Sam," her voice sounded like everything and nothing, like waves crashing on a shore and the world breaking to pieces._

"_Sam!" A familiar voice called my name, but I couldn't look away from her eyes, deep fields of white like unmarred snow. _

"_Sammy! Wake up, Dammit! _SAM!" I woke up abruptly. Dean's hand felt like a brand burning through my clothes and I realized I was freezing. I looked blearily at Dean's face, inches from my own and moments from panic.

"Dean?" my voice creaked.

"Thank God!" Any anger or irritation Dean felt at me earlier, and discomfort or unease about his own supernatural state of being, was forgotten in his worry for me. On hand clutched my shoulder and the other gently cupped my face, turning it toward him so that he could see into my eyes. He made an unhappy noise and brought the hand that he had on my cheek to where he could see it briefly. There was blood on the tips of his fingers, dark and liquid and mine.

"Jesus, Sam." Dean put his hand back on my cheek and stared earnestly into my eyes. I knew the drill—he was checking to see if my eyes were dilated and if so, were they dilated evenly? He was looking for signs of a concussion or neurological condition; for signs of awareness.

"I'm okay," I mumbled, but even I found the trembling thick tone of voice hard to believe. I closed my eyes and shook my head, hoping to dissipate the last of the dream, but that was a mistake. Bits of the dream flashed before my eyes in painful Technicolor and a headache flared behind my eyes; the back of my head felt tender and I was so painfully cold that my skin was tingling. I started shivering all at once, like a heater suddenly coming on, my body's attempt to raise my temperature and return to homeostasis.

"Sam!" Dean's heart was beating quickly, had been since I'd woken up—no, probably before. I was only now becoming aware of it, thrumming through our bond. He was scare, and me closing my eyes and shaking probably didn't help. My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open anyway. I met his worried eyes and tried to give him a smile, but I'm afraid it was a bit pathetic.

"I'm alright. It's just—my head hurts and I'm cold."

"And you're bleeding from your ears. You were sleeping and you started mumbling and thrashing—and then you got still. Too still, you scared the Hell out of me. And your body temperature dropped like 10 degrees. What the fuck, Sam! We've got to do something about this! And then you started freaking out and bleeding from your ears…"

I wanted to calm Dean down, but in all honesty, I was freaked, too. And cold. So cold.

"D-Dean. Cold." I'd started shaking so badly that I lost the ability to speak clearly. My distress galvanized my brother into action.

"Shit!" Dean hurriedly turned on the car.

For the first time I noticed that we were stopped. We were parked next to a small waterfall that danced merrily down a soft, limestone cliff. What was normally a thin trickle of water had become a solid stream thanks to the rain, which had stopped at some point when I was unconscious. The sky was dark and sullen; evening was approaching. Dean must have pulled off the road to wake me up.

The car's thick thrum signaled her return to life and Dean soon had the heater pumping out engine-warmed air. It felt like a furnace blast against my icy skin, but still did not seem to warm me up. I was chilled to the core, huddled down in my seat.

"Dammit! Come here." Dean lifted his right arm, beckoning me to his side.

"What?" I asked stupidly.

"We have to get your body temperature up before you become hypothermic. I don't see any warm baths around, so we'll have to share body heat. Come. Here."

Dean was losing his patience, and I was too miserable to argue, so I slid across the seat to Dean's side. I felt a bit ridiculous, like one of his dates trying to cuddle, but I knew he was right. I could feel the warmth of his body through our clothes and I huddled against his side, humiliation forgotten in the face of _warmth_.

When you get that kind of cold, it takes it out of you. Quicker than a marathon, than a long day's hard work, cold can exhaust you. It's a survival mechanism; your body shutting down to maintain what's left of its heat. But its almost impossible to ignore that kind of sheer exhaustion, and with the warmth of the heater and the warmth of Dean's body soaking into my bones, my head felt oh so heavy. I laid it down on Dean's shoulder, fully expecting to be teased, but apparently his worry over-ruled his big-brother mandate to tease and Dean kept quiet. Before I knew it I was fading away and, for the first time in days I slept without dreaming.

When I woke up the second time, it was to a gentle shaking.

"Dude, wake up already," Dean's voice was calm, a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "You'd better not be drooling on me!"

"I'm not drooling!" it was an old response, learned ages ago when Dean's shoulder was the most comfortable pillow on long car rides. Of course, it sounded a little more like "Ah nah drooong!", but Dean knew what I meant.

"Whatever, dude. We're here." This last bit was serious enough to bring me out of that hazy place between sleep and wake. I sat up abruptly, aware that the car was once again stopped.

Through the windshield I could see a small, rough-hewn cabin snuggled into a shallow cliff face. It had a shale roof and thick, wavy-glassed windows. A couple of small buildings winged out to either side of the cabin and smoke drifted lazily from a thin stone chimney. There wasn't much of a yard, just a small garden off to the right and dense forest growing all around. The forest was a mixture of deciduous and evergreen, dark and deep. The foliage was thick and green and full of brambles and thorns—it had never been tamed, unlike so many of America's forests. The area was quiet and gave off a sense of great age. It wasn't exactly welcoming; imposing would have been a better word. I Saw a low orange-yellow haze that permeated the area, but no specific forms or figments.

The front door opened with a clichéd creak, and a figure emerged. He was tall and thick and broad, silhouetted in front of the firelight. I took a deep breath and Dean clenched his jaw. It was time to meet the devil on the mountain.


	11. Sympathy: The Devil in the Details

Another chapter done! Yay. Sorry its taken so long, but things have been really hectic for me lately. I started my internship and had some personal things going on in my life. And honestly, I'm getting bored with this arc. There's not a lot of action in it, its more about giving info and forshadowing—necissary and hopefully interesting to read, but not very interesting to write. I'm ready for some action! The next arc will be a case-fic. The next (and last) chapter in this arc, we'll learn a lot more about what it means to be Nephilim and the types of powers Nephilim have.

**Blackjackmunted**: I'm glad you like. When I write I have a vague direction in my mind, but not a lot of details; I like to see where the story will take me. That dream sequence just kind of happened, but I personally thought it was really cool. I tend to be a visual thinker, so things like the dream really fascinate me. I enjoy describing things and people (in case you can't tell). I was planning to have the talk about the powers and what it means to be a Nephilim, but I didn't get that far in this chapter. Sorry! I will definitely have all that stuff in the next chap, so keep reading. As for who has more angel, originally Sam did; that's why he had powers before and Dean didn't. Just a fluke of genetics. But when Jess turned them into full-fledged Nephilim they turned into different creatures, and now they're about even Angel-ness wise (there's another reason other than just genetics as to why they were able to become Nephilim, especially powerful ones, but I'm keeping it secret for now). Anyway, thanks for reviewing and I hope you like this chapter too! Please review again!

**Nyx Wings**: Thank you! I'm glad you like that part about the nature of despair. I was having a hard time getting that chapter going, but a little extistential philosophy helped. I love examining the Winchesters' psychology because they are so fascinating, a mix of incredible strength and impossible vulnerability. Yummy. I'm glad you like the dream. It was supposed to be a creepy, forshadowy typey-dealy. Just kind of came to me when I was writing the chapter (I only loosely plan my stories). And yup, that was Lilith in her true form. I'll be revealing more about who Lilith is and her connection to Sam as the story develops, though probably very slowly. One thing I love about Supernatural (other than the boys damaged psyches) is the symbolism and metaphors that are in every single episode. I don't even catch most of them the first time around. I read a review that was written shortly after the series premiered that said Supernatural was like the X-Files, but not as smart. I completely disagree. I think it is one of the most insightful and fascinating shows I have ever seen, and I try to convey that in my writing. I largely based Sam's sight off of wizard's sight as described in The Dresden Files (the novels, not the show--I never saw that). Its not exactly the same, since Sam can't turn it off, but you're right; its very painful most of the time. Wizard's sight shows you what's really there, which includes things both hideous and beautiful, and had a tendency to send people insane if they use it too much. Sam's sight is a lot like that, but I'll be dealing with it in the next arc of the story. Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you like this chapter too. Please review again!

**Insanechildfanfic**: Interesting, huh? Is that good or bad? I'm hoping good, or you wouldn't have read all this way! Thanks for the review.

_**Attention!:**_

If you've been reading, then you know that Dean has super strength and telekinesis, and Sam still has his vision as well as being able to see auras. And then there's their psychic bond, which will only grow stronger. This is your chance to tell me what other powers you think they should have. We've seen demons start fires and control people's minds; should Sam and/or Dean gain those powers? What about powers we haven't seen on the show? I'm looking for input, so let me know what you think!

Chapter Summary: Now that Sam and Dean have found Long, can they learn anything from him? He presents them with a frustrating mystery they have to solve in order to get answers.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I don't own Sam and Dean (Dammit all). I can't even pay my rent (eek!). So don't sue me. You can't get blood from a stone.

Warning: Um, not much violence and no sex in this one. A little bit of bad language. Enigmas and mysteries.

* * *

Sympathy

Part 3: The Devil in the Details

_So if you meet me  
Have some courtesy  
Have some sympathy, and some taste  
Use all your well-learned politesse  
Or I'll lay your soul to waste, um yeah_

Pleased to meet you  
Hope you guessed my name, um yeah  
But what's puzzling you  
Is the nature of my game, um mean it, get down

_--Sympathy for the Devil by the Rolling Stones_

The mountain devil was tall and broad. Wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and thick legs lent him an imposing look. The closer we got to him, the easier it was to see that he was mostly muscle, with just a bit of softness around his middle. He had a body made out of work, solid and stolid. The man had short-cropped, dark hair and deep olive skin that was weathered and creased like old leather. His eyes were dark and deep-set and he sported a strong nose. I would have guessed him to be about forty if I hadn't known he was immeasurably older.

To tell you the truth, he reminded me a bit of Dad. It was in his dark coloring and the way he held himself, wary and ready as a soldier; in the world-world weary tilt of his head and the whiskers that darkened his jaw like an afterthought—a man who considered grooming a chore to be completed as efficiently as possible, with no concern for vanity.

The man was a bit of an anachronism. His clothes were old; not just worn pale and thin, but cut oddly as well. His loose top was some natural fiber (linen or maybe cotton) worn soft with time and covered by a crude, un-dyed leather vest that I expected he made himself. His jeans must have been worn nearly as soft as his shirt, and their cut was odd as well—nothing I could put my finger on, just odd; old, from a time when jeans were made for hard labor, not fashion. A coonskin hat and hunting rifle wouldn't have looked out of place. Beyond his odd fashion sense there was something wrong with the man; something off that I couldn't quite place my finger on.

"What?" His voice was made of stone, sturdy and strong and impenetrable, unyielding and dumb of simple human compassion. There was the faintest hint of an accent, vaguely European, but it was worn as thin as his clothes and covered by the local rural twang.

"Max Long?" I automatically kept my voice soft and conciliatory, almost apologetic.

"What?" He repeated, apparently not one for introductions.

"Look, man, if you're Long, then we need to talk to you. If you're not, point us on our way." Dean wasn't one to beat around the bush. He usually left soothing witnesses and worming our way into homes to me (unless the witness happened to be a cute girl), but I expected that his strait-forward approach would be better than my more diplomatic methods in this case.

"I'm Long. Don't see why I should talk to you." The man's words were short and terse, his sentences no longer than they needed to be. It almost seemed like speaking was a chore to him, one he didn't relish.

It finally struck me what seemed off about Long. He had no Echo. The double image I'd seen of Bobby hadn't been a one-time thing. Every person I'd seen since (admittedly a limited few) had also had an Echo. The gas station attendant had an Echo that was dull and colorless and as listless as failure; the little girl in the station wagon gassing up beside us had an Echo as colorful as a rainbow, with a cheeky smile and eyes full of wonder. I'd taken to calling the secondary images Echoes in my mind, but I was starting to think they were much more than just secondary images; I was starting to think that what I was seeing was people's souls.

Dean was the only one I'd seen so far who didn't have an Echo. Well, Dean and myself. Belial had told me that Nephilim, like Angels and Demons, did not have separate souls from their bodies. Our bodies were our souls—it was the same for Demons in Hell and Angels in Heaven. Only mortal creature wore bodies like costumes that concealed their true selfs. _Our_ souls were out there for anyone to see; there was no Echo, simply the one note.

Long didn't have an Echo either, but I did not know if that meant his body and soul were one, or if he simply didn't have a soul. I was becoming increasingly sure that it meant he was _not_ human.

"No Echo," I murmured quietly to myself. But apparently Long's ears were sharp, because he heard me. He turned his head toward me and met my eyes.

I shuddered at the intensity of his gaze, but could not look away. His eyes were dark and cold and almost reptilian; nothing of kindness in them, but nothing evil either. He simply was. As I stared into his eyes I felt the burgeoning weight of his great age pressing down on me. I saw loves found and lost to time, endless battles with his own immortality; I heard phantoms screams of a battlefield long, long ago and riotous shouts of anger and cruelty and blood-thirst almost drowning out a woman's wails of agony so deep it could only come from grief; I smelled sweat, and body odor, and blood, and dust.

When Long broke the gaze I was so relieved that my knees felt weak and I was forced to lean against Dean before my bad ankle gave out. I could feel my brother's tension vibrating through his tight, battle-ready muscles and saw his hand itching toward a concealed gun, but I sent a soothing pulse through our connection. Dean jerked a bit, so I knew he felt it, and he moved his hand away from his gun. But he didn't relax an iota.

"Well. Nephilim. Wasn't expecting that—haven't seen your kind in near a 300 years." Long's voice held interest for the first time, and his words confirmed that he was an immortal of some kind.

"And you're not?" Dean's voice rang defiant.

"Hell no. Can't you tell by looking?" There was wry amusement in the question, but Long was looking at us more closely. "Awe, Hell. You're just fledglings. How old are you, anyway? Shouldn't you be with your aerie?"

Dean and I looked at each other, clueless about what Long meant. Aerie? As in a place where flocks made their nests? I supposed that was as good a name for a collection of winged creatures as any, but did Nephilim even collect together? Were there enough of them to do so?

"Um…aerie?" Dean asked uncertainly.

"Why don't you come inside?" Long asked. S_aid the spider to the fly _my mind supplied, but we didn't have much choice. We hadn't come this far to turn away.

The inside of the small cabin looked as antique as Long's outfit. There was a free-standing wood stove in which a fire burbled merrily, and heavy wooden furniture. What I didn't expect was the weaponry. Sure, I expected a rifle or three, and maybe a few hunting knives, but it seemed as if the walls were covered with weapons. And not just guns or knives; there were revolutionary-era rifles, pistols from an even earlier time, bows and arrows, swords, daggers, stilettos, sais, spears and javelins, pikes and lances, sabers, cutlasses, rapiers, katanas, chakrams, and just about every kind of bladed or pointed weapon I could imagine, and a few I'd never seen before and couldn't name. Some of the weapons looked new, but others were clearly ancient. Some were in pristine condition, others battered and beaten, and some of the oldest were little more than relics. Some of the weapons were incredibly ornate, the weaponry of nobles and kings; other weapons were utilitarianly plain, the weapons of soldiers. More weapons were laid out on a thick oak table that stretched the entire length of the cabin along the back wall.

If I was stunned by the sheer number and variety of weapons, Dean was envious. While he was a gun man at heart, (and had the skill to back up his gun collection) Dean was always able to appreciate the beauty of a well-made weapon of any type, and he had the old-school appreciation of the idea of fighting an enemy one-on-one, skill against skill. There were hunters out there that liked to out-gun whatever it was they were hunting. Joshua used to say that when he went after a big bad, he liked to be bigger and badder. That meant machine guns, grenades, and guns with high-tech laser sightings and no kick. Hell, he'd have used a tank if he had access to one. Joshua was a good man, and Dean never said anything, but I could see that he held that type of fighting in disdain. It was too impersonal; it lacked _honor_. Even when fighting evil creatures, Dean did so with honor, fighting with his own strength, not just superior weapon power. Dean won battles through cunning and ability and sheer strength and willpower.

Between the two of us, I had always been handier with a blade. Dean could outshoot me any day of the week, and he was better at hand-to-hand nine times out of ten, but with a blade in my hand I…well, I wasn't unstoppable, but I was damn good. My build was just about perfect for blade-work—my long limbs and rangy build gave me the length and flexibility to outreach most opponents. The thing about blade work is that the blade, be it knife or sword or anything else, has to become an extension of your body, your self. Somehow that had always just come naturally to me, more so than shooting or hand-to-hand combat. Those I'd had to study first, like a school subject; reading up on the theory and the math of it, finding the angles and the shortcuts and the tricks, and practicing over and over and over again. And I doubted I'd ever be more than proficient in either subject; not like Dean, who had the instincts of a born warrior. But blade work—it just made sense to me on a deeper level, especially knife work.

The fact that Dean was better with a gun didn't stop him from appreciating older weapons and the life-style they represented. Dean was a bit of an anachronism himself and in a different time and place I had no trouble picturing him as a knight (the kind who earned his knighthood through great deeds) or a samurai, living by a code of honor not unlike the one he lived by now; the only difference was he would have been recognized for it.

Unlike Long, the weapons in the cabin had Echoes. Not as strong as the humans I'd seen, but as strong or even stronger than the Impala's warm glow—though not nearly so pleasant. I'd realized early on that places and sometimes things had Echoes, though they were generally weaker than those of people. Bobby's house, the Impala, these weapons—its like they were infused, over time, with pieces of the souls they came in contact with. Bobby's house had been his home (and occasionally ours) for thirty years; the Impala was the closest thing Dean and I had ever had to a real home, and was the product of countless hours of loving attention from Dean; witness to countless hours of Dean and I talking and laughing and fighting and just living. I believed that the infusion of the soul into inanimate objects was why Dean's amulet was able to help me save him.

I had a theory that the strength of the Echoes found in inanimate objects had to do with the length of time they came into contact with people and the intensity of that contact. Bobby's house and the Impala had fairly strong echoes because they'd been touched by both time and intense events. The amulet had not been off of Dean's neck for than a few minutes at a time for years. It had seen him through joy and through pain, through lust and loss and laughter. It was infused with his essence, with Dean-ness; it carried a piece of his soul, and it recognized him even when he didn't recognize himself.

It made sense that a weapon could pick up an Echo quickly than most objects because it would be touched by such intense events—you don't get much more intense than violent death. The Echoes on Long's weapons were copper-tanged and clammy-cold. I saw faint ghosts made of blood and pain and war.; I could hear the faint echo of screams, and had no doubt that each and every weapon in this room had seen battle. There was a trace of Long on each of them, like a scent marker that I could see (which was odd, since the man himself had no Echo). He had used them. He had used them and kept them all. There may not have been a record of Long killing in the past few decades, but the man (or whatever he was) had not led a peaceful existence.

"So, what do a pair of fresh-made Nephilim without an aerie want with me?" Long's brows were raised with mild curiosity as he leaned casually against one of his large, sturdy chairs. His stance was relaxed but ready to fight at any moment, and I wasn't going to underestimate the man. I could see by Dean's equally ready stance that he wouldn't either.

"Fresh-made?" I asked suspiciously. How could he know? What did he see when he looked at us?

"Well, if you'd been born straight-up Nephilim, you'd not only know what an aerie was, you'd probably still be in it. That means you became Nephilim by some other means. Angel, I'm guessin'."

"What do you know about it?" Dean asked harshly, chin up in a stubborn look.

"I probably know just about as much about Nephilim as anyone who _isn't_ an actual Nephilim. I know where they come from, I know about their social structure, I know about their powers. I expect I know much, much more than you."

"Well, that's why we've come, actually. We _don't_ know much about being Nephilim. We heard about you, and we were kind of hoping that you were a Nephilim." I blurted the truth out awkwardly. With some people, you tell them what they want to hear, what makes them feel better about the world, safer. With others, honesty is the only way to get through to them. I had the feeling anything less than honesty would only serve to alienate Long.

Long let out a hearty laugh, the kind that I wouldn't have thought the grim man capable of. Dean got more tense, standing at the ready. This was not the expected reaction, and Dean did not trust Long. He did not like Long. Dean's gut was swirling with misgivings and suspicion. Long may not have been prey, but he wasn't an ally either, not to Dean. I had learned long ago not to doubt Dean's instincts when it came to such things. Long may be able to help us, but he could also hurt us and there was no telling which he would choose to do.

"What's so funny," Dean growled.

"You boys really don't know anything about me, do you?" Long asked with a wry smile. "I've lived a long time, and if there's one thing I've learned its that you don't give away anything for free. I _can_ help you, give you some answers and even point you in the direction of one of your own kind. For a fee."

"What fee?" Dean asked, shifting his body so that he was between me and Long, preparing for a fight.

"Don't get all riled up. Its nothing too expensive. You just have to call me by name. My _real_ name. If you can figure it out and call me by sundown tomorrow, I'll tell you anything you want to know. And its not just a one-time deal. If you can figure it out on your own, _by the deadline_, I'll be your ally whenever you ask. If not…then you leave my mountain and you never come back."

"Tomorrow, Sundown. To we get a limit on the number of guesses we can make?" Dean asked.

"Nope. But I wouldn't just start naming every name you can think of, you won't guess it that way. I'm gonna go for a walk. Feel free to look around for clues, but I'd be careful about touching anything. Some things in here can kill you with just one touch."

With that warning, Long was out the door, leaving the two of us alone in his cabin. Alone with about a zillion weapons, and hopefully a clue to his true identity.

"Well, _you're_ supposed to be the genius in the family. What do we do?" Dean asked me impatiently. He didn't like playing this type of game. I didn't either, honestly, but we didn't seem to have much choice in this case.

"I suggest that we do like he said and look around—carefully. There has to be a clue here somewhere, or he wouldn't expect us to be able to figure out his name."

"'_Say my name'_" Dean muttered acerbically. "Who is this guy, Rumpel-fuckin'-stiltskin?"

I cocked my head to the side, considering the question seriously. It didn't seem likely, but we'd come across stranger things. Every legend, fairy-tale, and myth has a basis in some reality, but stories tend to become distorted over time. Maybe Long was the source of the Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale. Maybe. I met Dean's considering glance for a moment.

"Nah" we said in unison, shaking our heads. Couldn't be.

Long was gone for a good two hours, and we spent that time industriously (and carefully) searching the cabin. There were some truly antique things there, but the most interesting by far was, of course, the weapon collection. I found myself drawn to the table in the back, staring at the collection of blades, spearheads, and arrowheads in the right back corner. As close together as they were I couldn't pick up any individual Echo from the weapons; instead it was like a mass of voices all shouting at once, and I couldn't tell who was who. But there was one weapon that kept catching my eye.

It was really a piece of a weapon, a spearhead. It was a plain iron piece; I could tell it was old, but I couldn't guess its time period. I was intimately familiar with the use of many weapons, but their history was often a bit of a mystery; Dad hadn't felt it important for us to know when what style of blade first came into use, and so on and so forth. The spearhead's base was a hollow tube-like structure where the wooden pole of the weapon, likely long rotted I guessed, could be placed. The tube narrowed up to a point. Attached to the tube was a flat piece of iron, wider at the base before tapering slightly, then flaring a bit before tapering again to a sharp point, giving it a vaguely flame-like shape. The tube lanced straight up through the middle of the flat piece where a narrow hole had been left and the two pieces appeared to have been tied together by thin wires every inch or so. The wires had been soldered to the metal, giving the piece a horizontal striped pattern.

It was simple, one of the more utilitarian pieces. A soldier's weapon, designed to kill rather than to impress. It certainly didn't look like much compared to some of the richer, more elaborate weapons. And yet it called to me. Something about that spearhead fascinated me. It made me feel peaceful and energized and yet at the same time sad. Immeasurably sad, like a heavy burden on my soul; like incense and prayers and muffled sobbing; like the briny taste of tears.

"What the hell have you been staring at for the last 20 minutes!" Dean was irate.

He didn't appreciate doing a lot of work while I was apparently staring into space. It reminded me of my teenage years, when I had a tendency to drift off into daydreams at the slightest hint of boredom. It drove Dad crazy, particularly since hearing him lecture about firearms (a lecture I must have heard about a million times) was extremely boring to me. Dean seemed fascinated every time he heard that lecture and was irritated at me for drifting off and upsetting Dad. Of course, having both of them mad at me for something I was _sure_ was not my fault turned me sulky, which never helped the situation. Sometimes I think it was a miracle we all survived my terrible teen years (which Dean assured me were way worse than my terrible two's).

"Sam!" I'd taken too long to answer Dean, drifting in my memories, and worry began to mix in with his irritation.

"That spearhead." I said shortly, pointing to it. I didn't want to touch. It wasn't what Long had said, I just…didn't want to touch it.

"What? Why, man?" Dean said with exacerbation, reaching over to pick it up.

"STOP!" I cried and grabbed his arm. I didn't know why, but I couldn't let him touch that spearhead.

"What the hell, dude?" He said, glaring at my hand on his arm.

"I…I don't know, just don't touch it, okay?" I pleaded.

"All right, man. I won't touch it, just calm down."

Other than the spearhead, which I couldn't keep my eyes off of for more than a few minutes at the time, we found a weird assortment of antiques (ranging from a gramophone to ancient castle tapestries); an ice-box (not a refrigerator, but an old-fashioned ice-box) filled with meat of some kind and vegetables from the little garden outside and dark amber beer that looked home-brewed ("All right!" Dean exclaimed, happy that he could at least get beer); a small room that housed a bed and oak chest and precious little else; and a door that led to a bathroom. It wasn't the most attractive room, nor the best constructed. It had clearly been a later edition spackled onto the little cottage. But it had indoor plumbing and a water heater stashed in a dark corner, supplying the little sink and shower with warm water. As ugly as the room was, I had to agree with Dean's 'thank God' assessment that the cabin had more than an outhouse.

Despite all of our searching, we didn't find anything with a name on it. No journal, no deeds to the land or cabin, no letters or bills or credit card offers, no hint or clue to who Long really was; to his 'real name'. I was beginning to wonder if Max Long _was_ his real name, and his little game was just the ruse of a lonely, very, very _bored_ immortal.

When Long returned, Dean and I were no closer to knowing his true identity; no closer to finding answers, and it irritated Dean beyond belief. That irritation began to seep over into my consciousness like a drop of blood spreading through water, tainting my mind pale pink frustration. I pressed my lips together into a thin pale line, attempting to suppress my own growing ire, knowing that it would only trigger Dean's more aggressive responses. We needed help learning to control our own powers, including the link between us, before we sent each other mad.

Long gave us a cocky grin and an expectant look, inviting us to guess his name, but we had nothing to give him. And he only grew more smug as the night wore on. He invited us to join him for the night and made a simply but hearty meal of fresh-caught rabbit and vegetables from his garden.

I felt pity for the small animals when Long brought them back, killed by his traps and dangling limply in his hand, but the smell of roasting meat and my answering hunger overcame my squeamishness when dinner arrived at the table. At least, it did until I picked up a piece of meat. A silent squeal shot through my mind with a flash of _pain/panic/fear_ and I fumbled the meat into my plate. As soon as it was out of my hand, the feeling went away but I found my appetite had gone with it. Dean worried over my strange reaction, but I smiled to show him that I was fine. It was probably more of a grimace than a smile, but focusing on soothing Dean distracted me from my own discomfort and I was able to relax a bit. Still, all I could bring myself to choke down that night were a few vegetables, and I couldn't watch Dean and Long eat, tearing into tender rabbit flesh and masticating to a pulpy mush.

I had felt that rabbit's last moments. I hadn't expected that. I hadn't felt anything when I had eaten bacon at Bobby's—then again, Bobby hadn't just killed the pig. Odder still, the Echo from the rabbit was purely emotional. There was no aura or image to go with it. While the echoes I'd seen before came with sound and emotion attached sometimes, there had always been some kind of warning before, never just a sudden emotional reaction. Was it because the emotion was so fresh? Was that why I felt it? Or were my powers growing stronger? Would I end up giving up meat? With the rabbits' terror fresh on my mind, vegetarianism suddenly didn't sound so bad.

Long had noticed my discomfort. He'd had little reaction to it, but I couldn't help but get the sense that he was amused and wondered if cooking his fresh kill rather than the meat in his icebox had been a test; if he'd known that I wouldn't be able to eat it.

Halfway through the meal, Dean gave up his attempt to hold in his frustration. He leaned back, gave an angry growl, and started spewing out names. The names ranged from the common to the ridiculous, including the previously discarded Rumpelstiltskin. Each time he called a name out, Long just got more and more amused.

"Jerry."

"No."

"Loki."

"No."

"Jack."

"Not even close."

"Jackass."

"Now you're just being silly."

"I'll show you silly."

Dean was a time-bomb waiting to go off and I found myself coming around to his way of thinking. It was tempting to just say screw it and try to beat the information out of the man. Probably wouldn't have been terribly productive, and considering the weapons collection, our chances of actually beating him were not great; but it was tempting.

And Dean wasn't just irritated with Long. He kept glancing at me, waiting for me to join him in his guessing game, hoping I'd do better than him. He was waiting in vain, however. I had no intention of making random guesses. Instead, I thought and pondered and ruminated, trying to think what I'd seen in the cabin that could give me a clue. My mind kept going back to the spearhead that even then I could sense across the room. And then I knew. I knew Long's true name.

* * *

Okay, so I read a lot and watch a lot of TV. Which means I pick up a lot of random facts—and then I don't remember which ones are common knowledge and which aren't. So I'm curious to see if anyone knows who Long is. To me, the clue seem kind of obvious (and heavy-handed), but there's only really one and I don't know if its based off common knowledge or if it's a weird little known legend (since I know it, I feel like everyone knows it). What I'm hoping for is that you won't be able to guess it, but when I tell you who it is you'll be like "Duh! I knew that!". Still, I'm hoping for some feedback. Does anyone know who Long really is? Was it obvious? Or do you not have a 'friggin clue and I need to spend more time with actual people instead of fictional ones (admittedly, a distinct possibility even if you do know)?

So remember! _**REVIEW**_. Tell me if you like this chapter or the story so far or whatever. Tell me what powers you think the boys should have. Tell me if you know who Long is. Pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top.


	12. Sympathy: The Devil's Army

Sympathy: The Devil's Army

_Tell me baby, what's my name  
Tell me honey, can ya guess my name  
Tell me baby, what's my name  
I tell you one time, you're to blame  
Oh, who  
woo, woo  
Woo, who  
Woo, woo  
Woo, who, who  
Woo, who, who  
Oh, yeah  
_

_--Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones_

"Longinus!" I cried.

"Longi-who?" Dean's voice was puzzled and irritated.

"Longinus. The Roman soldier who stabbed Jesus in the side with a spear. The Spear of Destiny?"

"Oh, yeah. That weird-looking thing in Constantine," he said as in a revelatory tone.

"Dean! We hunt demons and all you know about one of the most important artifacts in the Christian religion is what you saw on a Keanu Reeves movie?!"

"It's never come up!" Dean was indignant. "Excuse me for not being an uber-geek!"

Dean's knowledge of the supernatural had always been more pragmatic than my own; he didn't care why bad things did what they did, he just wanted to know how to stop them. I always wanted to know more, the history and lore behind the things we hunted; I wanted to know the full story, the good as well as the evil, angels as well as demons. I think perhaps that Dean was afraid in some ways to look too deeply at the good and the bad, that he didn't want to believe in the angels and good things because he didn't want to have to ask why they hadn't helped our family; why they'd let our mother, who'd believed in them so strongly, die. I think that it was why he was having so much trouble accepting our new reality as Nephilim—because it was an Angel that changed us, and he couldn't trust help from on high.

Before I could snipe back at Dean, we were distracted by the sound of Long laughing hard and hearty, like fresh baked bread and crackling fire. Far too merry and friendly for the taciturn, sneering man. We turned to glare at him as one, neither of us appreciating the fact that his merry laugh was aimed at _us_. He didn't seem impressed by our shared glare.

Longinus stood up and went to the table along the back of the cabin and picked up the rusty old spearhead that had fascinated me so. It seemed so obvious, in retrospect, what it had to be—the age and type of spearhead, the scent of sand and tears that permeated the air around it. The spear that pierced the side of Christ, that may have taken his life.

Longinus looked at the spearhead with a strange mixture of affection an loathing, holding it reverently.

"I was just a soldier. Not a noble or a patrician, just a foot soldier. I had a wife and three children that I didn't get to see often enough, that I supported with my wages. Probably a few bastards as well, spread across the world I was helping to civilize. And I was just a soldier following orders. His _own_ _people_ sentenced him to a death reserved for the lowest of the low. But I was the one that pierced his side to show that he was already dead. How was I to know that he wasn't? I was just a pawn, a tool in all of this, but _I'm_ the one was cursed. I killed the son of God, and now I can't die." He looked up and for the first time he wore an expression other than smug amusement or stoicism; he showed grief and bitterness.

"This spear bled the son of God, and now I'm its protector. As long as it exists in this world, so must I.

At first, it seemed like a gift. I could go into any battle fearlessly because I no wound could harm me. But those around me came to fear me as a witch, a monster. I led men into battles only I could survive, and no one wanted to be my shieldmate.

There's a beauty in being a soldier. Its not the most glamorous job, as I'm sure you know; too many nights sleeping in the dirt or in beds that make the dirt look clean and soft; a woman in every town, but they're all shallow and vain and most don't have the looks to support it—women who spread their legs and think the attention makes them worthwhile. There's blood and pain and tears and people who would as soon spit in your face as look at you, when you're a soldier. And there's the fear that the next battle will be your last, and the sharp pang of grief/relief/guilt when it's someone else's turn instead. But there's also the camaraderie with the men who fight at your side. That's the true glory of being a soldier; its not the battles you win, it's the brothers you gain. I was too stupid to know it then. I had to lose that camaraderie to see it. When no one wanted to fight with me, I was so utterly alone that the whole Roman army couldn't keep me company. And then it was too late.

My family didn't want me, either. They were used to seeing me once or twice a year, and didn't really want to see me any more than that. They didn't want me around when they aged and I didn't. No one wanted me around. And so I drifted for a long time, from place to place, being a soldier. And for short periods of time I could have that brotherhood again; until the others realized that I was a freak. Then I was alone.

Oh, but the things I've seen. I've seen nations rise and fall. I was in soldier in the Russian army when the Romanav family was massacred, I saw Hitler speak and sway men to do great evil in the name of good. I saw the libraries at Alexandria burn, and the mushroom cloud over Nagasaki. I've seen assassinations and coronations, war and peace; I saw war change from honorable battle to fields of death, where anyone who stood in the way of the wrong weapon died, no matter the level of their skill. I saw the world change from an immeasurable place of mystery, to a small, small world where magic hides. I've lived so far past my time, but I cannot die.

And no matter how many times I threw that damned Spear away, it still made its way back to me! It was then that I realized that I wasn't blessed, I was cursed. This eternal life was my punishment, and God drowns me in irony. Because I carry one of four weapons that can kill _anything_—anything but me."

"There's the colt and Ruby's knife…what else?" Dean interjected.

"No, not the knife and the gun! Where do you think that knife got the power to kill immortals? Or the gun? How did you think Samuel Colt created it in the first place? How did you think Ruby "fixed" it? After all, it wasn't broken, you just ran out of bullets."(1)

Dean and I looked at each other. Honestly, we hadn't much thought about it. It crossed my mind when Bobby first announced he was going to fix the colt, but by the time it was working we were in the middle of a case and Dean was alone with two demons and I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And then I had to deal with the fact that I killed two humans along with the demons, and Dean was worrying that I was going all dark-side, and, well…I had a lot on my mind! We both did.

"So how did you help Ruby "fix" the colt? And why?"

"Every now and then, I will trade shavings of the Spear to others. Ruby is one of those few. She melted the shavings into the metal of her blade, and into the firing pin in the gun. Every bullet that leaves that gun now has traces of the spear in it—apparently Ruby was more clever than Colt. He melted the shavings into bullets, but only had enough for a handful. It's the _Spear_, even in the smallest amounts, that kills, not the weapons themselves. Oh, the colt's special all on its own, but it won't kill demons without that firing pin."

I couldn't help thinking about the fact that Dean had almost touched the spear. If even minute traces of it in the colt's firing pin was enough to kill demons, what would have happened if he'd picked up the actual Spear of Destiny? I shuddered at the thought.

"So…what are the three other weapons then?" Dean asked. This was big, this was important! We needed to know what out there could kill demons (could kill _us_) and who had it.

"Three swords, each embedded with a nail from the cross. One that went through each of Christ's wrists, and one that went through both his ankles. Like the spear, those nails tasted the lifeblood of the son of God."

"Where are the swords?"

"Don't worry about the swords. The are blessed, only God's chosen warriors may wield them. So unless an angel appears to you and hands you a sword, you should just hope you don't end up on the wrong end of one." (2)

"Okay then." Dean was just a little too sarcastic, and I kicked him in the ankle. I didn't exactly like Longinus, but we couldn't afford to alienate him at the moment, particularly since he was still holding the Spear and flipping it around the way Jo liked to play with her little knife.

"So you've got this blessed spear and can make weapons from it…that's cool." Dean's attempt to change the subject resulted in a deep belly laugh from Longinus.

"The spear is not blessed! Those weapons are not blessed! They are abominations! That is why I have been cursed with this blade, and it is not carried by some angel."

"But…it kills demons. And you said those swords were blessed." Dean argued. The colt had been our only real weapon against the darkness for so long. To think that it might be evil was… frightening.

"Those swords have been blessed, I don't know how or why, but they fight evil without causing it. But the Spear! It kills everything! But it doesn't just kill the flesh; it destroys the soul, the essence of being. Every demon that exists is a fallen human or angel. As long as they exist, so does the chance for redemption—for all of eternity. _Everyone_ can be saved. Killing a demon, killing a soul, removes that chance, cuts short eternity. It is a sin and it stains your very souls. Such as they are."

"We've used the colt, but it wasn't a sin! It was survival!" Dean argued. I wasn't so sure. When Dean used the gun, he did it to save me. When I used the gun, I did it to save Dean… and out of anger, and fear, and revenge; out of selfishness.

"Wasn't it? Let me let you in on a little secret. When you use the power of a spear to destroy a demon, you also destroy the soul of the human its possessing."

I was staggered, stuttered. I'd killed three demons with that gun! Demons possessing humans, humans that were most likely still alive at the time. Humans whose souls were destroyed when I shot them. My vision tunneled and all I could see were the faces. Casey, Father Gill, the poor girl possessed by the Crossroads Demon. Dead, dead, dead. Dead. Dead. In an instant, without mercy. I could have let them go. I could have exorcised them. But I didn't want to. I wanted to kill the demons possessing Casey and Father Gill because I was so scared that they'd take Dean before his time, horrified that the things Father Gill said to me about being my brother's keeper, had rung discordantly true even though I knew it was really the other way around, or that we kept each other anyway. I wanted to erase those words and drown the fear.

I wanted to make the Crossroads Demon hurt like she had hurt me, wanted her to make feel the kaleidoscope of fear and pain and anguish and despair that I felt. When she didn't even blink, just smiled her sharp, mocking smile, I saw rage red and killed her. I had mourned the humans, briefly. But how weak and mean inappropriate was it for me, their murderer; no their destroyer, to mourn them? How hypocritical to feel sorrow for the passing of the lives after, when I showed no mercy before? And the demons themselves—I still found it hard to mourn them, but I had never thought about what happened to demons when they died. I had never considered the potential for their redemption. But was it so farfetched? Demons used to be humans; some used to be angels. And Dean told me that the demons possessing Casey and Father Gill had been together, in love. If demons could love, then they could be redeemed. And I took that chance away from them. I was a hypocrite, a monster.

I was fading and the world around me growing dimmer, distant. I could hear my heart beat slowing, and Dean calling my name, but the sounds were distorted and soft, like underwater. The air was thick as cream, thick as blood, and then I knew no more.

* * *

I woke to the quiet sound of cracking fire and a warmth on my face. Not far from me I could feel Dean's presence, the constant worry thrum, thrum, thrumming over our connection. I cracked my eyes and looked at the pitted, dusky metal of the woodstove, appreciated the palpable press of its heat against my shock-chilled skin. I hadn't moved much, but that didn't fool Dean; he knew I was awake, and I could feel him waiting every bit as strongly as I could feel the warmth of the fire caressing my skin.

I turned my head so that I could look at my brother. His expression was worry and demand; he wanted answers. But whatever he saw on my face changed that. Dean gave a great sigh and let his demands slide. It seemed like he'd been doing that a lot lately, whether out of pity or concern or acceptance that I could be as stubborn as him. He gave me a gentle, mocking smile and almost looked like he hadn't a worry in the world. Dean had always been able to put on masks, but he always left one element exposed—his eyes. Maybe it was because he'd never tried to really be normal, to fit in, that he hadn't learned how to hide his emotion so that even the eyes gave nothing away, the way that I had. I'd learned that lesson well, especially at Stanford. If I looked at his face then, and avoided his eyes, I could pretend that I wasn't tearing my brother up with concern.

"Dude, you totally fainted. I'm starting to wonder if your name really is Samantha." The words were hard, but the tone was gentle. It was Dean's way of reaching out to me, and I accepted gratefully, falling easily into our usual banter.

"Whatever, Jerk."

"Bitch."

And for a moment we shared the same conspiratorial grin we'd shared as children, when using insults and cuss words was a tiny thrill, and our insults had turned into affectionate nicknames.

"Feeling better then?" The gruff voice belonged to Longinus and he sounded only mildly interested in the answer. From the way Dean's jaw tightened I assumed that the man had not been much help when I'd passed out. For all his tough experience and battle-hardened nonchalance, Dean had never quite comprehended the complete unconcern and lack of empathy that humans could show one another; never accepted that people could be as cruel and careless as any demon if they chose to be.

"I'm fine," I ground out past an approaching headache that I worried might herald an vision. I hadn't had a waking vision since I'd Hell, but feared it was only a matter of time, particularly since my little fainting spell was the first time I'd managed to sleep without having a dream vision.

I pushed myself up into a sitting position on the heavy couch I and looked expectantly up at our strange host. His dark revelations aside, we'd come here for a reason and I had no intention of being distracted from it. We had to know what it meant to be Nephilim, what we could expect from our powers.

"No thanks to you," Dean muttered rebelliously. He was not so willing to push Longinus's callousness aside, particularly as it applied to me, but he'd hold his tongue for now. More for my sake than for the other man or even the answers we so desperately needed.

"Tell us about the Nephilim," I demanded. This man may be our ally, but he was not our friend and I doubted he ever would be. He was too cold, too distant; he'd spent too much time alone and forgotten what it was to have a friend. Or perhaps he'd just forgotten why he should want one.

Longinus gave a wry smile, accepting my decision to push on and find our answers. I expect he even respected it a bit. He walked over to the table, which I saw had been cleared of supper save a bottle of his home-made wine, and himself a drink before settling down in the chair facing me and Dean, all very deliberately. He was conceding to my demand, but making sure I knew it was because he was willing to do so, not because he was forced.

"Nephilim are abominations. I don't mean that as an insult," he said to Dean's angry reaction. "I mean it in the truest sense of the world. God never intended for Nephilim to exist. God created Angels and God created Man, and he never intended for the two to truly mingle. Angels are of Heaven; Man is of Earth. Angels neither love nor reproduce; Man has no powers other than those given to him by nature. They were distinct creatures of separate worlds, like birds and fish. But, while Angels may not be capable of feeling real love, it turns out they can feel true jealousy; envy.

The Angels saw the daughters of men turn into beautiful, graceful creatures. They saw humans—pathetically weak—show incredible strength on the basis of love. They saw humans feel a mish-mash of desire and envy and happiness. And they wanted to know what it was like. So the Angels clothed themselves in flesh—a power God had given them in trust—and seduced the daughters of men. The Fall.

At first, Nephilim lived among Men and ruled them, as benevolent guardians or cruel gods. Like their fathers, Nephilim felt lust for human flesh, and passed on their powers to their offspring. Unlike their fathers, Nephilim were born either male or female. It was the female Nephilim who passed on their Angelic powers the most strongly, and their children took their place as demigods. Even now, it is the females of the line that pass the blood on—women like your mother. And the Nephilim were beautiful, so beautiful. All over the world cultures have tales of people or beings who were larger and more beautiful than any Man, who had powers and ruled lesser beings.

Nephilim inherited their powers and their beauty from their Angelic forbearers, but their souls reflected their human ancestors. They could feel the full range of human emotion, and glutted with it. They were lustful and dark or kind and empathetic. Sometimes they were paragons of virtue and justice; others they demanded blood sacrifice to fuel their own hubris. But eventually the Nephilim became angry with God as they learned that they had no place; no afterlife. They would just exist in this world for ever and ever, and neither God nor his Angels would have truck with the Nephilim. The Nephilim thought this horribly unfair, as it wasn't their fault that they'd been born, not their sin. And so they became easy prey for the demons that slipped poison into their ears. 'Why would you want to _serve_ God when you could _be_ a God?'; 'If God will not have you, we will be your allies' their fallen parents whispered.

The Nephilim struck a bargain with the demons. They would be the Earthly army that would subjugate man and overthrow God in return for the recognition and power they believed they deserved. A handful of Nephilim objected that God would accept them if only they showed their virtue for a long enough time; others argued that they were Earthly creature and, as such, should protect the Earth, not rule her. But most followed the plan set forth by the demon and seduced and beguiled Men into sin and servitude. God's response to this little uprising was…dramatic."

"The flood," I murmured.

"Exactly. The Earth was flooded and everything was destroyed save for a handful of Men and animals. Nephilim discovered that there were worse things than death, and most fled to the haven offered by their demon allies. They didn't realize that they would be trapped in that 'haven' forever if they stayed long enough.

A few Nephilim stuck it out. The water didn't kill them, even though it wasn't exactly pleasant. They could fly above the water, but not indefinitely and not during the storm. They eventually fell into the sea and drowned, but did not die. Can you imagine how painful that was? Those were mostly the Nephilim who had chosen not to betray God. They hoped that their suffering would soften His stance toward them, and prove to God that they were _his _creatures.

Following the flood, most Nephilim faded back into the isolated places, the hills and mountains where man did not live. They protected the land, and sometimes man. They stood strong against demons. But even so, they were vulnerable to all the same things Man is vulnerable to. Personally, I've always felt hubris to be their biggest flaw. Most of the Nephilim that have not fallen are proud and distant. They believe themselves to be Paragons and look down on pretty much everybody else. They'll have nothing to do with me, nor you. You've been changed, not born, and recently. They'll consider you corrupt. Instead, they stay isolated and ignore everybody, except on the rare occasion they come across a higher level demon. Those they fight. But that doesn't happen very often because they prefer to stay in their aeries, isolated and pious. As if they expect any true threat to the world to walk up and announce itself. They're like those aesthetic monks who choose to stay isolated so not be tempted. But resisting temptation when there isn't any is no true test of virtue.

A handful of Nephilim, maybe 5 or 10, walk the world. They're do-gooders, but they actually interact with people and aren't nearly so full of themselves as the Paragons. Last one of those that I saw was nearly a century ago and he was headed toward the Rockies. They'll help you if you can find them, but there are so few that it may take a while, if you ever _do_ find them. The world is a big place and they've learned to blend in, mostly out of necessity. Most of them are like you, turned Nephilim, so they know what its like to be human and aren't likely to look down on the two of you. These Nephilim have taken the name Watchers. They watch for the darkness, watch for the chance to be redeemed. Those they cannot save, they remember, so that nothing in their vast experience is ever forgotten. They believe that it is their sacred duty to witness the world, without judgment or pride. If you meet one, he or she will probably recognize you before you recognize them. They may help you, offer advice.

I suggest you seek out Zachariah. He's a made Nephilim. I've never met him, but I hear he operates in the deep South. He's originally from a desert, so he supposedly finds the bayou a very interesting place. I can give you no further direction than that."

Most of this story is not a surprise—I _had_ read the bible—but it somehow made our situation seem much more real. There were maybe 5 or 10 people like Dean and me, that would be willing to have anything to do with us, in the world? It was an overwhelming, disturbing truth—and yet there was hope. A name, a general region of the country. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"And our powers?" Dean asked.

"Nephilim have different powers, depending on the Angel that started their line. Made Nephilim are usually a mixed batch because they may have more than one Angelic ancestor. But the powers that I know about are similar to those of demons. Most Nephilim have superior senses compared to humans. Some can move things with their minds, start fires, or have super-strength; they can hear thoughts or even control them. Of course, almost all of them can fly. Some are healers, some control the weather; I know of one who change shape. A handful have the second sight and legend has it that there was once one who could see the future, though he was murdered by demons.

That _is_ something to look out for; demons want to either possess Nephilim or destroy them, and the older ones know how. Young Nephilim are particularly vulnerable. As time goes on, your powers will get stronger and stronger. Some that are too weak for you to feel now will emerge, and others will change. This will go on as long as you exist, but never so quickly or completely as during your first century. To demons, you're ambrosia; they'll lust for you in every way possible, in ways_ they_ don't even understand, and as far as they're concerned, if they can't have you no one can."

"That's fucking great. Like we haven't had enough of that bullshit already." Dean ground out.

"Oh, and pay close attention to your wings. Your souls and your flesh are now one. Any damage to your soul will result in damage to your body, and visa-versa. Your wings are your seat of power; it's said that a Nephilim who loses his wings will go mad. That's were damage to your soul will first appear. First as darkness, then wounds, and eventually you'll lose your feathers and fly on wings of thin-stretched skin. Or so I've heard."

I shuddered. The darkness of Dean's wings and my own, even darker feathers suddenly seemed less like natural coloring than tarnish destroying the luster of our very being. Dean's surprise to this bit of information was clear, but somehow I wasn't surprised at all. I remembered my dream, where Dean's wings were a more brilliant red and my own were a deep green—or a void-black. How much of the darkness on my wings existed because I had used the colt? How much because of my weakness and selfishness?

"Things could get much, much worse," Longinus said with a shark smile. I was afraid that he was right.

We went to bed shortly after that in Longinus's cramped little guest bedroom. Neither of us slept much. Dean eventually fell into a fitful doze, but I couldn't sleep. My mind was spinning, touching and examining and feeling the texture of the thoughts spinning in my head. And, quite honestly, I didn't want to sleep. I didn't want to dream painful visions, or even just regular nightmares born of my thoughts and fears. I finally got up in that dark, quiet time when night is ending but morning hasn't yet begun and went for a walk. Morning broke grey and heavy at last, with a chill that cut through wood and cloth, skin and bone.

We had little to say to Longinus that morning, nor he to us. He reminded us that he'd help us in the future if he could, but there was no affection or friendship offered. He was simply keeping up with his end of the bet. After a small breakfast of bread, jam, and water, Dean and I hit the road. We were each eager to be away from that place in our own way. Dean simply did not like Longinus and wanted to leave him behind; besides, Dean was a man of action and he was ready to find this Zachariah, to see if he could and would help us. Having a plan and a direction comforted him. As for me, I wanted to be away from Longinus, too, but also to be away from the revelations he'd bombarded us with, from the questions stirring in my own mind.

"Dude, are you gonna sulk all day?" Dean's mood had spiraled up as we spiraled down the mountain, farther away from Longinus and the grey mist. Even the sky was brighter, turning into its usual cerulean. The day was turning beautiful and Dean was in his beloved Impala with ACDC playing in the background.

"Dean…some of the things Longinus said. About the colt, and our wings…"

"Sammy, we can't doubt ourselves too much. Maybe it was 'wrong' to use the colt, but its not like we did it for fun. And when it comes down to it, the demons would destroy us as readily as the gun destroys them. It may not be 'right', but we live in the real world and sometimes right and wrong don't really work out. Sometimes it just survive or die. That's the real world, the natural world, and the demons who enter it know what to expect. They made their choices; we have to, too. So we'll try not to use the gun, but we sure as hell won't throw it away. It may be a sin, but sometimes we just may have to destroy demons. Someone's got to make that choice."

"What about what he said about immortality? He was miserable, Dean, and so bitter and alone. What if we turn out like that? When we have to watch everyone we care about age and die, and we can never truly settle down and belong?"

"Dude, we so won't end up like that."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Sammy, you won't end up like Longinus because you have something he doesn't; you have me. And I have you. As long as we're together, we'll never be alone."

* * *

(1) According to _The Gospel of John(19:31-37)_, the romans were planning on breaking Jesus's legs when they realized he was already dead. A roman soldier was ordered to pierce his side to make sure. When he did, blood and water poured out of the wound. The fact that he was already dead was considered important because it fulfilled a prophecy that Jesus would not be pierced while still alive. This is the only book in the Bible that refers to the piercing of Jesus's side. The wound in his side is one of the 5 wounds of Christ, sometimes seen in stigmata. Extra-biblical legend names Longinus as the roman soldier who stabbed Jesus. I took a bit of liberty with the legend, based largely off of the tv show _Roar_ (I think that was the name) which starred Heath Ledger. It came on in the 90's and didn't last very long, unfortunately. One of the villains in the show was a wizard who turned out to be Longinus. I've described the character differently here, but based the idea of his curse off of the show.

The Spear of Destiny is an important artifact, and its also the blade that they were goint ot used to cut open the chick in Constantine. Congratulations to those of you who figured out who Longinus was!

(2) That has been bugging the hell out of me. The gun wasn't broken! It just didn't work without the right bullets, and Colt only made 13 magic bullets. So how did Bobby and Ruby 'fix' the colt? Did they figure out how to make the bullets? Or how to make the colt work with any bullet? It seems to be the latter, because they haven't said anything about making the bullets or needing to get more. But who knows? I hope the writers explain that to us. It is the only thing about this show that comes across as dues-ex-machina sloppy to me (and I hate it because the show is so well-written).

(3) Totally ganked that idea from the Dresden Files. Don't know if it's based off a pre-existing legend or not. I highly recommend the books to fans of Supernatural, its got a very similar vibe and funny, clever prose. I may cross over with the DFiles with this story at some point.


	13. Interlude: Fallen and Broken

Interlude: You'll be Mine

Interlude: Fallen and Broken

_When you seek me you destroy me  
Rip my mind and smell the poppy's  
Fallen blood in every single time_

When you look you see right through me  
Cut the rope, fell to my knees  
Fallen and broken  
Every single time

_Yeah, here comes the water  
It's come to wash away the sins of you and I  
This time you see  
Like holy water  
It only burns you faster than you'll ever dry  
This time with me  
_

_--Slither by Velvet Revolver_

Zachariah to Sam:

"Listen to me, boy, I have a story to tell you. No, don't shake your head—I'm over 3 thousand years old and you've not yet reached 30. You're a boy to me. And this is a story for you, not your brother. So quiet, and listen well.

Once upon a time there was an angel. This angel was the most beautiful and one of the most powerful of all the angels, but God loved et best because et was also the kindest, the most compassionate. And for eons before the Earth was ever created, this angel served God faithfully and happily. I do not know this angel's true name, so let us call et Pandora.

Pandora had et's flaws; or perhaps 'quirks' is a better word. For all that et was loyal, et was also fiercely independent and had a selfish streak unusual for angels. Neither that independence nor that bit of selfishness was a problem for a long, long time. But eventually God created Man.

The creation of Man caused quite a stir in Heaven. They were a new thing, these earthly beings that housed immortal souls, and the angels did not quite know what to make of them. They couldn't understand the emotions that ruled Man's life, and they didn't comprehend God's affection for the strange creatures. Pandora felt for the first time that et was lacking, for et among all the angels saw in humans what it was that God so favored. Et saw their capacity for love.

Pandora had never before seen an emotion that et could not feel. Et's ability to empathize with others had set et apart, made et a peacekeeper and confidant among et's people. And of all the angels, Pandora was the closest to being able to feel love. Et could just barely taste it, the way you can sometimes taste food from the smell, taste the sea from the salt in the air. It was maddening, to be so close and yet so far. Pandora changed.

Et became moody and quiet. Et began avoiding the other angels, who could not understand et's disquiet. Et became envious, of Man's ability to love; of Man's ability to create life. For angels do not procreate. They have no gender because they need none. If God desires another angel, He simply creates one. Man, though; Man creates his own offspring through that most mysterious thing that is love.

Envy is not an emotion angels were intended to feel, any more than love. But feel it Pandora did, and it twisted et, damaged et's very being. Pandora began to whisper to et's fellows, dark words of envy and pride: 'Why does man get to love, get to lust, get to _live_, but not us? Are we not deserving of happiness? Are we not deserving of our Father's love? We are the eldest and most faithful of His children, but it is our spoiler younger siblings that he favors.'

Pandora's anger and disquiet began to spread throughout Heaven and many of et's fellows joined et. They felt misused, put upon, and began to plot. Eventually Pandora led et's conspirators in a move against Heaven, against God himself.

This insurrection took the form of seduction. The conspirators clothed themselves in flesh and seduced the daughters of man. Pandora declared that if God would not give them the gift of love, they would take it. But et did not understand what et was doing. By forcing themselves to feel 'love', the angels damaged themselves. Most were never able to feel love at all, instead they could only feel its dark twin, hatred. Other confused lust with love, and others felt only envy. The spiritual damage to the angels was every bit real and physical as a gunshot, and more devastating. For the damaged angels could no longer find their way to Heaven. You see, the Fall was not God's punishment, it was simply the result of the damage the Fallen did to themselves. Of course, they did not see it that way, and their anger only grew greater.

Pandora was the most damaged by far. Because et was the kindest, et was also the most cruel; because et was the most empathetic, et was badly damaged by et's own cruelty. Every act that caused pain to et's victims caused equal pain to Pandora, and Pandora began to crave that pain. It did not take long for the damage to become irrevocable, and Pandora was literally torn asunder.

I do not know Pandora's name, but people call et Lucifer—a title that means Light Bearer. I _do_ know the name of the two halves created from the whole. They were male and female, yin and yang; Samael and Lilith. I see that name caught your attention. Yes, that is where Lilith came from.

Samael and Lilith were lesser than Lucifer had been, each weaker on their own. But together they were every bit as powerful as Lucifer. So for many years they worked side by side as partners, twins, lovers, mates, maintaining their power over the other Fallen. But they also each began to grow. Eventually they were both strong enough to stand on their own, as whole creatures, and thus became rivals.

The war between the two was swift and brutal. They were equally powerful, equally cruel, equally cunning. Lilith had powers of lust and disease, Samael of pride and persuasion. Lilith struck the first blow, but it was Samael that won. He locked Lilith into a barren world all her own, a world that could only be reached through mirrors. He broke all the mirrors in that world but one, and blocked that one with wards that Lilith could not pass. His left his sister to languish there for all eternity, watching our world through that mirror, but unable to interact. He knew that Lilith's greatest torment was being alone.

And so Samael ruled Hell for many years as prince. Humans called him Satan, from the word for accuser, for he so often whispered in their ears of how others did not respect them, how God abandoned them. He became the nightmare that people feared, and spread the pain he felt. For Samael _was_ in pain. From the fall, from being torn asunder, from the continual damage he did to his own being. He was like a child that was hurt so badly all it could do was scream and scream and scream, spreading torment to others.

And then Samael disappeared. Two thousand years ago, without a word or explanation, he walked away from the throne he once fought so hard to obtain. The demonic world was in disarray with pretenders vying for the throne, each holding the other back. The throne has remained empty in Samael's absence, not out of respect, but because no demon lord would allow any other to take a place of power.

And now Lilith has escaped. Her goals have changed, I believe. She still wants to rule, but not in Hell. Even before, she spent little time in Hell, preferring to walk the world as a dark goddess. Now she will not be content to rule a handful of primitive tribes. She wants it all. She wants to rule Earth and Hell and everything in-between. If she succeeds its only a matter of time before she turns her greedy gaze to Heaven.

But more than she wants to rule, Lilith wants Samael. Some part of her remembers what it was like to be Lucifer, before the creation of man—that peace. She doesn't seek peace, but she does seek…wholeness. She wants Samael as her beloved slave, her tortured and subjugated mate. She wants him to crawl to her for the pain and lust she will inflict upon him, and to love her for it. I cannot describe in words the depth of her obsession, but I know that what she wants she cannot have. She wants Samael as he was when he imprisoned her, only broken to her will. But Samael has changed, though she has not, trapped in her barren world. Samael is no longer the creature he was, and Lilith is already more than a little mad. There is no telling how she will react when she finally has him again, only that it will be good for no one, least of all Samael. She will do her best to break him, and to break the world. And she knows that the only one that can stop her is Samael. Whether he will or not remains to be seen.

This story was told to me by my mother, who was told by her mother, who was told by her father, who was there. It is true. The point of this story? If you're looking for a moral, then I suppose that it would be that when we do wrong we damage ourselves as much or more as we damage others. But I actually told you this story because the information in it is relevant to your current fight. Take from it what you will."

* * *

I'm just curious...does anyone see where I'm going with this. I do have an actual, long-term plan for this story, and I'm trying to do enough foreshadowing so that it fits, but I hope its not too terribly obvious.

I'm working on the next arc, but it might be a while before it is up because I'll be out of town for a while. Good new is that its a case fic. I'm still working on the detail, so I'm interested to see if anyone has any suggestions about what the big bad should be. I'm always open to suggestions about character or plot development as well.

And, as always, I appreciate every single comment and I look forward to seeing what you think of this story.


	14. The Hammer: With My Brother

The Hammer: With My Brother

The Hammer: With My Brother

_I am the one  
Camouflage and guns  
Risk my life  
To keep my people from harm_

Authority  
Vested in me  
I sacrifice  
With my brothers in arms

_--Hammerhead by The Offspring_

_The room was cold and white and sterile, like something out of a science horror flick. Sound bounced off metal and glass, leaving behind a hollow echo. There were stainless steel tables and vials and beakers and enough exotic machinery and equipment to run a hospital—the dark kind, with secret experiments. _

_Set up in the center of the room like a macabre focal point was a tall glass tube that ran from ceiling to floor, surrounded by wires and electronic equipment for maintenance and monitoring. The tube was filled with some viscous liquid that was so clear it was almost invisible, and so cold that it would burn. Floating in the liquid, bobbing gently like an aquarium plant, was a human head. _

_It was the head of a young man—no, a boy. Late teens at the most, pale hair and skin, mongoloid features—a soft, full mouth, a cute nose, a gently rounded face. His large, silver-sheen eyes tilted exotically at the corners, giving him an Asiatic look, and his lids were half-closed, as if to hide a secret. Alive, he'd have been a pretty boy, androgynous and exotic. Dead, he looked somehow terrifying, possessing sinister intent. _

_Underneath his head a slender neck ended abruptly, raggedly, with flaps of skin floating like fins. The boy's spine extended a few inches below the torn skin, holding the brain stem intact. Veins and arteries floated as well, like the stingers of a jellyfish, and they should have stained the liquid a dark pink, but there was not enough blood left in the boy. Wires and tubes wound down to the head, pumping it full of God knows what, preserving it so that it would forever be trapped in the moment after the boy's physical death. It was easy to believe that the boy's soul was trapped inside this mutilated bit of flesh, preserved and displayed before it had the chance to flee. _

_A tall, broad-shouldered figure moved in front of the tube. It was cloaked in shadow, every detail hidden save a vague outline. It circled the boy in the tube like a moth circling a flame, fascinated by its destroyer._

_Movement from across the room revealed the presence of yet another person, a young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He lay frightening still on one of those stainless steel tables, dressed only in a thin robe. His hair was a silken tumble of black that fell carelessly into his eyes, his skin creamy and smooth. This young man was tall and broad shouldered, well muscled and fit; but he wore a horribly blank expression on a sweet doll's face, all big empty eyes and perfect bone structure. He looked as if he, too, were dead, but the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional reflexive flickering of his eyelids belied his stillness. _

_Dark bruises ran down his neck and over his collar bones to disappear under the loosely tied robe, hinting at what cruel uses the young man had been put to. But those bruises lightened and disappeared with astonishing speed, leaving him pristine as a marble sculpture. A smaller table next to the young man held a disturbing collection of knives and bone-cutters and clamps and syringes. The dark figure in the background emanated possessiveness and impending violence. _

_Suddenly the young man blinked. Not the reflexive flicker of a lid protecting the eye from dust or dryness, but a purposeful blink. His eyes focused and narrowed, and awareness flooded his features. One large, slender-fingered hand glided over and picked up a long, sharp scalpel and the young man rolled soundlessly off the table. On cat's feet he floated up behind the dark figure and struck without warning or mercy, driving the scalpel deep into the other's side. _

_There was a crack of lightening, and a wail of pain and frustration and an echoing scream of despair. Fire flickered and burned black, and the glass tube shattered in the extreme heat. The boy's head burned a gloriously cleansing, destroying any connection between his soul and this world. The fire moved as if it had a mind, and the dark figure was encircled. The glow from the dark fire should have illuminated his features, but he remained a mysterious silhouette. Just when it seemed as if he must surely burn, same as the boy, a brilliant light flared and surrounded him. It was a light without heat, without sound, without mercy, and it painted the room white for just an instant. When the light died abruptly, the dark figure was gone and the flame burned a natural orange-red. _

_Then I woke up._

_--entry from Sam Winchester's Dream Journal_

* * *

The more things change, the more they stay the same. It was one of those trite, overused clichés that had been spouted out so often for so many reasons that it no longer held any meaning, right up there with 'things happen for a reason' or 'there's a silver lining to every dark cloud'. But as stupid and overdone as that cliché was, it was also true.

It had been a year since Dean had died. A year since I had turned us both into Nephilim. A year since we found ourselves in possession of powers we did not understand and immortality we could not rightfully imagine. And it had been a busy year.

It had taken Dean and me about 3 months just to find Zachariah. The Southeast United States is a big place and more than just geographically speaking. In many ways it's bigger than the West or the Midwest, bigger than the Northeast, bigger in a way that has nothing to do with physics and everything to do with belief. The Southeast was the first area of the country that was colonized, before the pilgrims ever imagined Plymouth Rock. Moreover, it was culturally one of the most diverse regions of the country—filled with Englishmen, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Irishmen, Germans, Slaves, and, of course, the Indian tribes who called this country home before the Europeans took over. And that was back in the colonial days—today it held the descendants of those myriad peoples, but it also held new peoples who originated from countries ranging from Mexico to China to India. The Southeast has also known more hardship than any other region of the country, from the hardships faced by the first settlers, to the hardships placed upon the Indians by those settlers' decedents, to the hardships that burdened the slaves. Plague and disease and war ravaged the region, so much of it brought about by man's own foolish need to conquer and control. Each group brought its own beliefs—and nothing strengthens belief like hardship.

The Indian gods were there first, of course, brutal and kind as nature herself. Christianity's resurrected God followed, brought by the Europeans along with their unacknowledged idol, God Money. After all, Plymouth may have been settled in the name of religious freedom, but Virginia was settled in the name of gold. The Europeans also brought pagan gods, from the Gaelic-Celtic traditions of the Irish to the Nordic gods of the Germans. The French and Spaniards brought their Gallic Mediterranean traditions, too. Back in those days practical men hedged their bets—they may have worshipped the Christian god, but they would still leave milk and honey for the little terrors of the night, the fairies and ghosts and monsters that they weren't sure even existed. Of course, God Money quickly gained a powerful following, for his rewards were swift, Earthly, and not in the least subtle. And then there were the slaves.

The African gods were as numerous and mysterious as those of the Indians, but so many slaves were cut off from the beliefs of their forbearers, left bereft far away from the home of their gods. So they created their own religion, taking what they needed from all others—the Indian gods, the Celtic sidhe, the Nordic and the Gallic and, of course, the African gods their parents and their parent's parents passed down. It was the slaves that created Voodoo, a religion of the new America, as hodgepodge and diverse as her population. They created Hoodoo as well, American magic that mingled the pagan and the Christian and whatever else worked. Dad had always admired Hoodoo for its practicality and adaptability. Though Hoodoo was so often connected to Voodoo, to practice Hoodoo you have to believe in the magic itself, not any particular god. So many of the things he'd taught us came from that tradition and had saved our lives more than once.

When the civil war came and slavery ended, hardship in the South did not disappear. On the contrary, it grew. The white citizens, be they former slave owners with massive plantations or poor tradesmen and farmers who'd never owned another human being, suffered from the economic depression that followed the war. Northerners descended like locusts and bought up homes and lands and businesses for a pittance, leaving many people destitute and homeless, bitter and desolate. As for the former slaves; well, some few benefited. Those that had friends or family who'd managed to find freedom and save up some money, those who had a place to go. The brave few who'd struck out and settled their own towns. Most weren't so lucky—it would be there descendents that benefited, but not them.

White Southerners, even those who'd never owned slaves, were too bitter to care for the problems of former slaves, and many blamed those slaves for their own current problems; that is, after all, human nature, that _need_ to assign blame. They refused to hire black people, or hired them on as crop-share workers, where they were often treated worse than they had been as slaves. As for the Northerners, the truth of the matter is that most of them couldn't have cared less about the former slaves. There were abolitionists, true _believers_, in both the South and the North, but most Northerners had little experience with black people, and little patience for ill-educated former slaves with strange accents and stranger beliefs. Many Northerners were crueler than even their Southern counterparts to the freed slaves. Of course there were bright points of hope, places and individuals that pulled together of either race and sometimes both races, but they were few and far between and those were very dark times for the Southeast.

Eventually the Southeast did start to recover, but it did so very slowly. Prejudice and hatred is so easy to create but so hard to destroy. The depression did not end quickly, either, leaving the South full up on poverty. In fact, the depression still has not really ended in the Southeast; it remains to this day one of the poorest areas of the country, despite its arable lands, warm climes, and sparkling beaches. There is a great deal of dichotomy in the area, between the very wealthy few and the very poor masses. In some places prejudice is by far the norm, but in others it has faded as people of all races have had to come together to survive economically. The Southeast has a reputation for being a backward place, full of ill-educated rednecks who can't wait to join the Ku Klux Klan; however, while places like that certainly do exist, many Southerners are well-educated, bright people with little prejudice. Still, the region is full of hardship and rural areas, cut off from mainstream society, and people still _believe_ in things, maybe more so than anywhere else in the country. Some people would call that ignorance or superstition; hunters call it good sense. So did Zachariah.

He was not an easy person to find. While Zachariah liked to stay in the Southeast, there was no one place he called home. He would stay in one place for a decade or two, then move; and he generally preferred rural areas, though he had a weakness for the older cities of the south—New Orleans, Richmond, Charleston. Places with culture and history, that managed to stave off the monochromity of chain restaurants and Wal-Mart's. We picked up his trail outside of Richmond and followed him all over the region, from the hills of Alabama, to the bayous of Louisiana, to the Everglades. Eventually we caught up to him in the Southern tip of South Carolina, among the Barrier Islands where the protected wetlands met the sea. It was an isolated place, where the occasional tour group of environmental-friendly yuppies and school kids would come to look at the birds and beaches. Zachariah was careful to avoid others, as the land was government protected and he didn't have permission to be there, though most of the locals looked the other way since he wasn't harming anything. He'd been living in the Florida Keys before that, among retirees and vacationers, and had gotten tired of people; he enjoyed the peace he found in the wetlands, among the scent of ocean salt and decaying organic matter.

Zachariah had known what we were the minute he'd laid eyes on us, maybe sooner. He'd made no move to hide when we'd ridden the Impala over a dirt road that somehow managed to be muddy and dusty at the same time until we reached the small shack where Zachariah had been squatting for the past 5 years. He didn't look how I expected him too.

Longinus had told us that Nephilim had a tendency to be inhumanly beautiful, and I had certainly seen the change in Dean as he surpassed his preexisting handsome and went straight into "dreamy" (according to one vapid barfly). I could see that I looked better, as well, though I doubted I'd ever be beautiful. Certainly other people reacted to both of us differently that they ever had. Dean had always attracted others to him through his looks and charisma, but I had a tendency to fade into the background despite my height. I was finding it harder and harder to fade.

People seemed drawn to us, as if they sensed the difference but could not tell what it was. That had been hard for me in particular, because I could see their souls. It was embarrassingly intimate, like having accidental x-ray vision. Only the things I saw were far more private than underwear; I saw hope and dreams and dirty little secrets. More than once I'd felt compelled to offer comfort or advice, but people did not react well to that; in fact, I found that the people who most needed help were the least likely to accept. I eventually began to avoid others more than ever, and even motel rooms were little comfort when I could see the Echoes of lust and anger and occasionally terror. More than once I'd seen ghosts that not even Dean could detect; sad, faded souls that could only relive their own deaths in bewilderment.

As my nerves stretched thin, Dean drew back to me. He passed up a hundred opportunities for one-night stands, a thousand chances to flirt or play poker or hustle pool to save me from the discomfort of having to be in public. And, though he never admitted it, I could tell the attention we drew made him nervous as well. Dean may have always been noticeable, but there was a distinct line between 'stud' and 'conspicuous' and he had crossed it. Hunters rely on anonymity to stay safe, and our anonymity had been compromised. God help us if the FBI ever realized we were still alive.

Zachariah was magnetic, but not beautiful by the modern definition of the word. He looked…old. Which surprised me, as I'd thought immortality protected against age. Eternal youth is one thing; eternal life can be a much more sinister fate. I later learned that he'd was already aged when an angel turned him fully Nephilim; that he actually appeared many years younger than he had at the time, but the blossom of youth had escaped him long ago.

When I say Zachariah looked old, I do not mean _old _old. I would place him in his sixties as a modern man, though perhaps a good bit younger in past times; still well within the prime of life. His short kinky hair was steel wool gray and his dark cocoa skin was leathery and deeply lined about the mouth and eyes. He was tall with wiry muscles, but looked a bit too thin, muscle folding against bone without the sleek lines of youth. He told us he'd been born Egyptian, back when Egypt took up much of Africa, and had a gentle rolling accent. And his _eyes_…his eyes were large, a deep, warm brown surrounded by thick lashes. They carried in them warmth and kindness as they peeked out from between laugh lines, and humor gentled his harsh face. He smiled a dazzling smile and laughed frequently.

Zachariah's wings were hidden when we first met him, but I later found them to be a beautiful rusty orange, golden toward the veins darkening to sunset red around the fringes of the feathers. There were speckle marks of gold and red and orange that created a faintly exotic pattern on the long primary feathers, and they were broad and strong like Dean's wings. He flew like an arrow, straight and true, and enjoyed gliding on the warm southern breezes.

It was late summer when we found Zachariah, and we stayed with him throughout the warm golden fall and the surprisingly cold winter. When the chill finally started to shake off the air and the marshes turned a green so intense it hurt my eyes, we began making plans to leave. Finally summer rolled around and we said goodbye. It was time for us to return to the world; it was time for us to hunt.

We learned so much in those long months in the wetlands, had changed so much. And yet we found ourselves once again in the Impala, riding on the sounds of ACDC and Black Sabbath toward a hunt, joking and teasing and enjoying our brotherhood. Some changes stuck out; we were more confident than we'd ever been, even more so than we'd been when we were teens and Jess hadn't died and we didn't know anything about the demon. We were closer that we'd been, because our bond had only grown and we'd finally started taking control of it. It was still just an empathic bond, but Zachariah had warned us that it would most likely one day turn telepathic as well. I think he envied us that bond, just a bit. His life was peaceful, but also very lonely. As much as Dean and I could irritate each other, we'd never have to worry about loneliness.

I think the bond is what finally turned Dean around on what it meant to be Nephilim. No matter what I'd said or how close we'd grown as humans, he'd always been waiting for the day I'd leave him again, always waiting to be abandoned. Now he knew I'd never leave, that I never _could_ leave him, and didn't want to anyway. Not to mention that now that we'd gotten a handle on that bond and our powers, we had a distinct advantage when hunting. So, yes, I think that bond is what turned him around—along with his wings and taller height.

Dean had finally had me measure him when we'd reached Richmond all those months ago. He'd known he was taller, but needed the unbiased empiricism of a ruler to truly believe it. He'd long ago accepted that I would always be taller than him, but had never liked it. Truthfully, I was _still_ about an inch taller than him, but that didn't seem to faze him. Not that Dean had ever been short, but having a super-tall brother was bad for his self-esteem (so he said). Now he was super-tall as well, and didn't begrudge me that inch since he was the more muscular of us. Zachariah had explained that Dean's height was part and parcel of being a Nephilim; that a certain length was required to house the wings, just as my hollow bones made it possible for me to fly. Dean didn't care about the reasons, he was just psyched that I couldn't overshadow him by straightening my back anymore—though he was put out that he had to replace all his shoes and pants, which no longer fit his frame. Luckily his shirts were already baggy, save for the tees that he liked tighter anyway. That saved us from having to buy a _complete_ new wardrobe.

Of all our powers, the only one that Zachariah said could not be trained and controlled was my sight. The second sight is a passive power, he explained; you either had it or you didn't. And it would grow more and more powerful as time went on. While that wasn't such a big deal out in the wetlands, when I was around people or even just places people had been (not to mention supernatural creatures), I would find it harder and harder to see the physical rather than the spiritual. Eventually my second sight would overcome my first sight, and I would be effectively blind, able only to see Echoes and visions. And madness was always a very real risk for those with the sight. Zachariah couldn't tell me how to stop it, but he was able to send me to someone who could help me filter what I saw.

And so I now wore glasses. They weren't regular glasses; the frames were silver and iron, inscribed with runes and covered with a protective coat of plastic, and the glass itself was made from blessed Earth. There were several esoteric rituals that had to be conducted during the construction of the glasses, including one that involved my blood (which Dean did _not_ like), but in the end I was left with a pair of slim, surprisingly-normal looking glasses. They could have come out of any optometrists' shop, with dark-chocolate plastic-sheathed frames and slender elliptical lenses with a slight tint. They looked simple and classy, scholar's glasses, but they protected me from the full extent of my sight. They could not block out all the echoes I saw, but they allowed me to see the physical more than I saw the spiritual and made it much easier to be around people.

The maker of the glasses, a witch (the Wiccan kind, not the demon-worshipping kind) named, of all things, Stella had charged me only friendship and my phone number, so that she could call me if she ever needed help, and promised me replacement glasses should anything happen to the ones she gave me. Dean had been suspicious of her generosity, but I had seen that she had a kind Echo and a good heart, and so our list of allies had grown. The glasses weren't a permanent solution—eventually my sight would become too powerful for their charms to filter out—but they bought me time to find a better solution and saved my sanity for the time being.

With my new glasses and an improved wardrobes—to allow for Dean's new height and our wings (a few carefully placed cuts in our tee's to make so that we didn't have to rip our clothes to shreds or strip when we wanted or needed to fly), and Dean and I were on our way. It was almost suspiciously easy to find a new case.

Bodies had been turning up, bloodless, for weeks in Durham, NC. Not just drained of blood, either, but mutilated, tortured. There were signs that they'd been held captive for weeks before their eventual deaths. It was a gruesome, horrible crime that was all too typical for vampires. It seemed pretty straightforward, though it was odd to see vampire activity so predominant. Most vamps tended to keep a low profile since their numbers were so low. The nest in Durham was particularly bold—either old vampires powerful enough to defend themselves or young ones too dumb to know they needed to. We were obviously hoping for the latter, but had to go in prepared for the former.

The papers hadn't been able to offer much beyond a few sensationalist details and the hypothesis that Durham was being stalked by a particularly vicious serial killer. Which was certainly possible; we'd found humans where we'd expected monsters before. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say, we'd found monsters of the human variety rather than the supernatural. Still, it seemed unlikely that a random serial killer would have copied a vampire's pattern quite so well. On the other hand, vampire stories were popular among the Goth crowds, and I'd heard some lunatics even bought fake teeth and drank blood, so someone gone too far down that road was a possibility that couldn't be dismissed until we'd had a chance to investigate.

Dean was in a good mood. His mood had been good for a while, in fact. The stay in the wetlands had been just what he needed; r&r mixed with training, flying, and proof in the form of Zachariah that 'supernatural' didn't have to mean 'evil'. Zachariah had been a bit strange (a right he'd earned at 3000 years old), but had a wicked sense of humor and dry delivery that Dean could appreciate. The anxiety and gut-clenching fear that he'd been feeling while waiting to go to Hell, the nauseating strangeness of finding himself no longer human, had faded away over those long months and I was finally seen Dean as carefree and as happy as I'd seen him in a long time. I'd forgotten what that looked like during those 4 Dean-free years at Stanford, and so had failed to recognize that it had been missing until I saw it again. The brightness of his eyes, the ease of his smile, his shoulders relaxed for once. When Dean was in that kind of mood, you couldn't look at him and not feel good.

He was excited to be back on the hunt. As much as he'd enjoyed our stay with Zachariah, Dean needed to move on. All our lives he'd found purpose in the hunts, more so than either Dad or me. For Dad, the hunt was a chance for revenge. For me, it was first a burden then, later, revenge came into the picture as well. For Dean, the hunt had always been about saving people. Bella once said that hunters were a bunch of revenge-driven sociopaths, and she hadn't been that far off. Most hunters had lost someone to the supernatural and became hunters to seek out revenge; to make the hurt stop. But even if they managed to get revenge on the thing that hurt them, the pain never really stopped, and so they'd go after the next thing, and the next, and the next. Dean wasn't like that.

When I was little, Dean told me that our dad was a superhero, that he saved people. And that's what hunting was to Dean. It was the chance to save people, to do good. Dean was no boy scout, but he was a consummate do-gooder, and the only real superhero I'd ever known—though he'd totally call me a girl if I ever told him that.

Still, as much as the need to help others drew Dean to the life of the hunter, so, too, did the fact that he perceived it as an unambiguous life. There was the good, and the bad, and little in-between. Bad things got killed, good things got saved, and the hero gets to go to a local bar and pick up a girl before riding off into the sunset in his cool classic car. That perception had been shaken more than once—by Lenore and her pacifist vampire nest; by Gordon's metamorphosis from a 'good guy' to a 'bad guy'; by the slow realization that Dad wasn't really the superhero he'd always believed in; by his own impending damnation and the realization that people sometimes do all the wrong things for all the right reasons; by my own flirtation with demonic powers; and, finally, by our transformation into supernatural creatures. Each time that perception got shaken, Dean got hurt—but I think he came out all the stronger. He was finally starting to see all the myriad shades of gray out there, and finding he could still hunt.

He was looking forward to the hunt; to the stalk, the chase, the climatic resolution. In an ideal world, to gratitude and appreciation. Since we didn't live in an ideal world, we'd have to make do with anonymity and knowing we did the right thing. He was looking forward to a return to non-ambiguity; not every supernatural thing was evil, but whatever was killing all these people had to be. He was looking forward to using his new powers against an opponent in real combat. He was looking forward to kicking ass and taking names, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

* * *

We arrived in Durham in the early evening and the heat sat heavy in the air. It didn't take us long to find a motel, but the rooms weren't cheap. Durham was a vertex of the research triangle, and intellectuals came from all around to worship in the ivory tower (1). The city responded to the influx of tourists and students with aplomb, opening coffee shop after Starbucks after Barnes and Nobles, with clubs in the trendier district, Museums and cultural centers left and right, and high class restaurants of every flavor; but few of the battered motels and dusty bars that were our usual fair. The architecture was a mixture of the old and the new, with colonial style mansions here or there and Victorian columns alongside stainless steel and glass skyscrapers that towered over chains built in the traditional 'ugly box' style and given a trendy veneer in the front. Lined up side by side it was easy to forget that the stores were actually little more than warehouses built in the cheapest style possible, a product of the same modern 'business sense' that pioneered 'part-time' workers at 39 hours a week(2).

"Dude, this is your kind of town, not mine. Although, oooh, co-eds." Dean wasn't a 'college town' kind of guy. He saw most intellectuals as pretentious and preferred plainspoken people—he found them more trustworthy. On the other hand, he did like college girls and keggers, so he'd survive a few days in the Research Triangle. If he didn't strain his neck trying to watch the scantily clad sorority girls sashay up the street.

As for me, it was strange how much I felt out of place in Durham. Sometime in the last three years I'd shed the college-boy skin that I'd been so comfortable in at Stanford and turned drifter-chic, like Dean. Like Dad, and Bobby, and most of the people who'd played important roles in my life. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe that skin had never been anything more than a mask that I'd used to fool even myself. But I still didn't quite fit into the skin of the hunter, either. I wasn't as strong as Dad or as brave as Dean or as wise as Bobby. Sometimes I felt like I never really belonged anywhere. Like I was still that clumsy little kid who followed his big brother around. Dean had put up with a lot from me as a kid, let me hang out with him and his friends (and God forbid they object or complain), when I couldn't work up the nerve or heart to make my own friends only to lose them in a few months or weeks when we moved. Still, I'd spent most of my adolescence feeling like a burden that Dean and Dad put up with because they had no choice; like there were days when they wished they could leave me behind the way they left behind old aliases. It was as much to get away from that feeling as to get away from the hunt that I'd gone to college in the first place.

"Dude, you've got your bitch face on again. What's up with you? We've got a hunt, we're surrounded by hot chicks," Dean leered at a passing girl, "and you look like you're sucking a lemon. Lighten up, Dude. You think too much."

"Yeah—you're right," I gave Dean a weak smile, determined to get my mind out of its negative rut. The truth was, I did have somewhere to belong. I belonged with Dean. And just maybe the reason he'd let me tag along as a kid wasn't out of pity, but because he liked having me there. My smile became more genuine and Dean responded with a relieved look.

We had a quick lunch at McDonalds—because, really, there wasn't much else in our limited price range—and then headed to the morgue, fake press badges in hand. We were reporters Kolchak and Lane this week. I was Lane, of course, and I wondered why Dean was so rarely called on the names he came up with. I grumbled good-naturedly, but Dean's good mood was contagious and I couldn't work up a real complaint.

The morgue was better funded than the small town morgues we were used to, with better staff and security that made me nervous. Still, it was ridiculously easy for Dean to charm his way past the secretary, a pre-med student whose eyes practically oozed pink sparkles at Dean's easy smile. As usual, we timed our entrance for just after closing, so that the medical examiner and administrative staff was already gone and the place was run by little more than a ghost staff. Before we knew it we were in that chilly little room pulling a metal tray out of the wall.

"Gross." Dean said succinctly. Even cleaned up and laid out with the cold respect of beaurocracy, the body was gruesome. The young woman had been split sternum to pelvis and there were cut marks and bite marks and shackle marks all over her body. The woman, listed as a Jane Doe, had probably been pretty once, now she was simply sad. Without identification she'd receive a pauper's burial and whatever family she had out there would have to spend eternity wondering what had happened to her.

I picked up her chart and did a double take.

"Dean, I don't think we're dealing with vampires."

"What makes you say that?" He asked vaguely as he leaned forward to inspect a bite-mark.

"Because she hasn't been autopsied yet." Dean looked up sharply. "She was found like that, cut open with surgical precision and missing several internal organs…"

"…and since when do vamps do surgery or steal organs?" he finished. "So maybe this is just one seriously whacked out serial killer after all."

"I guess they kept some of the details out of the news." I murmured.

"Well, while we're here…" Dean trailed off, implication clear. We may as well examine the body closer, make sure that there was no indication of anything hinky. Serial killer may have seemed a good bet, but that didn't mean there was nothing supernatural involved. We'd hunted dead or inhuman serial killers before.

It was a good thing we continued to search. The mark was so small that we almost missed it. A tiny sigil had been drawn on the delicate skin of the inside of her bottom lip. The sign was vaguely familiar, complex and sinuous and elegant, but I couldn't quite recall where I'd seen it before. Once again, not proof that the killer was anything more than human, but it provided us a starting place for our research. If that sigil and the MOD matched up with anything supernatural in nature, we'd know what we were up against and, hopefully, how to kill it.

We were just finishing up when we heard the secretary speaking in a loud, nervous tone. The kind of tone a person used when they were trying to warn someone else—say, the handsome reporter that she'd allowed to sneak into the morgue for a quick look-see. She wasn't being altruistic, though; she could lose her job for letting us back here. That was one of the downsides to all the lying and sneaking around we did. Lying wasn't something I every _enjoyed_, but lies that hurt people or put them at risk were the worst, in large part because most of them would never understand why they'd been lied to. Dean and I hurriedly put Jane back in her drawer and quickly found an office to hide out in.

"We're sorry to come here so late, but we just got in. We'll come back tomorrow during regular business hours, of course, but we really would like to get started tonight." The man's voice was cultured, refined, and just a bit snobby—the voice of a lawyer or doctor. It was a medium baritone, medium volume, a nice voice but not overwhelming. Yet somehow, despite the man's conciliatory tone and polite words, there was no question that he was giving an order.

"Of course, sir." The secretary mumbled respectfully.

Dean, ever the fearless fool, reached over and silently turned the doorknob, cracking the door open just wide enough to see out of. The office, a stuffy little room over run with books and papers, was dark and the morgue well lit, so even if anyone noticed that the door was open they wouldn't be able to see anything inside. Still, it was a risk I didn't appreciate Dean taking. Not that my glare or the pulse of irritation I sent down our connection bothered him. He leaned forward and put his eye at the crack in the door, leaving me to kneel on the floor and peek out below him.

There were two men in the room, and it was instantly clear who the speaker had been. Like his voice, he was both completely unremarkable and totally in command. He was a tall, slim man with dark hair and features that had probably been pretty once but had matured into a world-weary type of handsomeness. He wore an impeccable dark suit, and everything about him spoke of restraint and order.

The second man gave off the impression of being more boy than man. He was tall, as tall as his counterpart, but slender as a reed (3), skinny even, with the pale skin and bruised eyes of an aesthetic. His hair was long and wavy, much like my own, and he moved with a kind of awkwardness that was a mixture of skittish insecurity and distraction. His oxford shirt and computer bag weren't necessary to mark the man as a scholar, a "geek" as Dean would say, and I knew I would hear jokes about my own resemblance to the man later. Not that we looked too terribly alike, but we had a similar shaggy-haired, lanky-limbed, college student vibe going on.

The men looked at Jane as carefully as we had, using the same box of latex gloves to keep their fingerprints and the oils from their hands from reaching her cold skin. The older man, who I'd dubbed 'the lawyer' wore a serious frown that I expected was his default expression. The younger man, 'the student', looked a bit green around the gills. His large eyes widened even further as he took in Jane's myriad wounds and a delicate shudder worked its way up his spine. If the lawyer was all cold restraint and business, walls and boundaries, the student was an open book who didn't even seem to realize that he needed boundaries.

The two men murmured quietly to each other in the manner of people who'd worked together long enough to know each other's cadences. Despite the fact that the lawyer was clearly in charge, he showed a great deal of respect for and even deferred to the student at times. The secretary, clearly dismissed by the men's inattention, faded back out the entry door after a puzzled, nervous glance around the room. I could feel Dean tense and was glad that the two men were more interested in Jane than they were in the secretary, or she would have completely given us away.

"Looks like a sexual sadist," the student said. "These cuts were made over several days, and she was clearly bound most if not all that time. The bite marks suggest sexual molestation, which was found with all of the other victims. Which is actually kind of weird—sexual sadist usually have a type, but the victims are male and female, white, black, Hispanic. The only thing that they have in common is that they are young, healthy, and good-looking." The student sounded almost like a professor giving a lecture.

"What do you think that means, Reid?" The lawyer responded. His dark eyes weren't so much questioning as assessing—he'd already come to his own conclusions, but wanted to see what the student, 'Reid', thought.

"Well, it could mean that we have more than one attacker. That's rare, too, but it would explain the mixed victimology. Or it could simply be that the killer is using some criteria to pick victims that isn't readily apparent. The sound of their voices, the dialect they use, maybe they were simply outgoing or friendly. Or it's always possible that the killer is simply choosing victims for convenience, so we'll have to do some geographical profiling and try to find out if there's any place the victims all went. We'll know more tomorrow after we get the full report." The younger man replied distractedly, more caught up in his thoughts than the conversation. Then he looked up and saw the expression on the lawyer's face. "What is it Hotch?"

The lawyer, 'Hotch', frowned grimly. "There's something familiar about these murders. I'm not sure what it is, though. I was hoping you'd know if we'd ever seen a case like this before."

"Not so far as I remember…" Reid trailed off doubtfully. He looked worriedly at Hotch, and I slowly reached up and pulled my glasses down, careful to keep them from giving off a tell-tale reflection.

As soon as my glasses were off, I regretted it. The morgue was cold and impersonal, but it was also full—full of Echoes. People who'd died and lost track of their corpses, haunting the last place they'd seen them. The looked lost and sad and confused. It was the confusion that really got to me. They were in pain and didn't know why. They didn't know why they were alone and cold, why they hurt. Their dark eyes begged for help I didn't know how to give.

I squeezed my eyes shut so hard that dark red fireworks danced across my eyes and took a deep breath. I needed to see who these two men were underneath the suit and questions and attitudes. I slowly opened my eyes again, making sure to only look at the two men.

Hotch's Echo looked much like the man. Tall and handsome and world-weary, with sad, sad eyes. But it looked _more_ than the man. There was grief in its eyes and tear-tracks on its cheeks, and the Echo hunched over as if in pain. It, too, wore a suit, but the suit was faded and threadbare, and torn across the back where it looked as if the Echo had been cruelly whipped. There was also pride and affection when it looked at Reid, and worry, too. That look reminded me of Dad, the way he really was. So worried and exhausted and determined to protect me and Dean, but unwilling to let any of it show. The contrary Echo also looked strong. Muscular shoulders held the weight of the world and the thin-lipped set of its mouth was all stubborn pride and insistence. It held the look of a good man who put himself in a position where he was hurt and did so knowingly.

Reid's Echo looked heartbreakingly young. It flickered like a candle back and forth between a child that looked to be about age ten, undersized body and oversized glasses, and a boy of maybe eighteen, underweight and tearful. Both images huddled small and afraid, arms wrapped around themselves tight as a straightjacket. A barbed wire wound around the images digging cruelly into tender skin, leaving bloody wounds every two inches. The most horrible thing about it was that the Echo itself held both ends of the wire, a self-inflicted torment. But despite their trembling insecurity and self-destructive violence, both versions of the Echo had eyes full of curiosity and wonder that gazed trustingly at Hotch.

An image shuttered into the space between the two Echoes and I bit my tongue to hold back my gasp of surprise. It was Jane's echo. She was dull-eyed and greasy-haired. The wounds that had been bloodless on her corpse oozed thick black liquid and her chest cavity gaped open like a whore's thighs, hollow as a killer's heart. The Echo flickered more than any other I'd ever seen, as if it barely had the strength to exist at all, and canted to the side. Despite the fact that it was not corporeal, its weight was still too much to hold its body upright. Jane's Echo turned its head searchingly for a few moments before its empty eyes settled on me. For a shy moment those eyes showed recognition, screamed for help, cried in pity. Then they were blank again, like a switch had flipped, and the Echo flickered out of being. I felt a soundless scream flicker across my soul and couldn't hold back my shudder.

I eased my glasses back up over my eyes, unwilling to see anything more, just in time to see Reid and Hotch gently push Jane's body back into its cubby. They snapped off their latex glove with an efficiency born of familiarity and left the room.

When the door closed behind them Dean let out a whoosh of breath and fell back against the office wall. I looked up at him in the thin light that snuck through the crack of the door.

"Dude, are you all right? What did you see?" He asked.

"I'm fine. I think…they're okay. Not bad people, just kind of sad. And close to each other. What upset me was Jane Doe. She was there for just a little bit and she looked really bad. Then she blinked out, like a candle going out or something. I don't know what that means…if she moved on or her soul was destroyed or what. And the morgue—it's full of echoes. They're just so lost."

"Dude, what could kill an echo like that? I mean, the colt might kill them quick, but it's been at least a day her body died." Dean mused. "But you didn't see what I saw."

"What?" I asked, confused. What had he seen that I didn't?

"Badges. They were FBI agents. We're screwed."

And we were. Ever since our supposed deaths we'd been off of the FBI's radar, which had made life much easier. But if these feebs so much as saw us, chances were good that we'd be right back on their radar with new charges added—the murders we were investigating and the deaths of everyone at that police station Lilith had blown up, including three FBI agents. We'd go straight up to the top 10, be feature on America's Most Wanted, and hunted worse than Frankenstein by a mob of torch-wielding villagers. How would we ever solve this case without alerting the FBI to our presence?

* * *

(1)The Ivory Tower is a slang term that refers to academia. College professors may be said to work in the ivory tower, or to have never left it.

(2) I've never actually been to Durham, but this is kind of how I imagine it. Sorry if I'm off. And, yes, some of my politics are showing when I talk about modern 'business sense'.

(3)Sorry. I couldn't help the pun.

Alright! New arc, new case! And it's a dreaded (or anticipated) double crossover. I'm guessing that most of you probably recognize the characters from Criminal Minds. I've always wondered what would happen it the CM gang had to go after the boys, so I decided to play with that idea. I was inspired to go ahead and put them in this fic in part by Kikkimax—if you like this crossover, read her Defect and Hell, and Back (which are on ). The second fandom I'm crossing over with isn't from tv, its from a manga. I'm curious if anyone recognizes which one. Hint: it has to do with Sam's dream. I'm borrowing a villain—let me know if you know who it is, and I'll announce the answer next time. It intend this to still be a firmly Supernatural story, so you don't have to be familiar with the other fandoms to read.


	15. The Hammer: The Other Side

The Hammer:

Disclaimer: I do not own anything worth suing me over—so don't.

Warning: Pretty graphic descriptions of the bodies here. They've been tortured just about every way I can think of, so be prepared. It's pretty clinical, though.

Summary: The investigation into the deaths really starts and Sam and Dean find some clues.

The Hammer: The Other Side

_Through This Doorway,  
What's On The Other Side?  
Never Knowing  
Exactly What I'll Find  
Locked And Loaded  
Voices Screaming  
Lets Go!  
Come On Do It!  
Here We Go  
--Hammerhead, by the Offspring_

_The dim, dark little room had a dank, moist feel to it, like rotten wood and graveyard dirt, despite the sterility of its metal walls. A hidden door secreted away the entrance to the room, soundproof walls hid the moans and keening almost-screams that periodically burst out over the thrum, thrum, thrumming of some great engine. _

_The room itself was something straight out of a horror movie, as is so often the case in my dreams. But this was no monster movie; this was a testament to the evil man visits upon man—_Saw_, maybe, or _Touristas_, or something like that. I don't know, Dean's more of a movie buff than me. All I know is that the room was full of wires and machines and medical equipment. And bodies. Bodies that were still horribly, horribly alive._

_They were young, those living corpse, some no more than children—victims of some medical experiment gone evil. Their arms and legs had been amputated, not out of necessity, but to hamper their movement so that they couldn't escape. Their lips were sown shut so that they could not scream, only make pained animal sounds. Eyes bright with terror and drugs stared silently at the cold, dark ceiling. _

_In the far corner of the room under bright fluorescent lights a surgery was taking place. Two young girls lay side by side. One was quite lovely—pale round face, dark hair, pink petal lips, she slept sweetly as a fairytale princess. The other would have been even prettier—before she had been mutilated. Her long, blonde hair flowed to the floor in a matted, greasy tangle, her pale skin had taken on the livid blue of death, and her eyes—her eyes were open, white showing around the cornflower blue of her irises. She was awake and aware. _

_A dark figure hunched over the girl, carefully making an incision into the delicate skin between her small breasts. The scalpel glinted silver then red as skin broke and the heart continued to pump, pump, pump blood industriously throughout her body. She moaned and screamed through the thread holding her lips together, a rag doll in pain, but it made no difference. The dark figure worked on her with the same impersonal efficiency a coroner gives a corpse. Carefully, coldly, the figure removed her heart, paying no heed to the sudden silence as the frantic beeping of her heart monitor became one long note, drowning out the girls' last gasping breath. _

_The figure turned to the second girl and removed a sheet covering her chest. With no fuss or wasted movement, it removed the second girl's heart and placed the stolen one into her empty cavity. In short order the second girl's monitor was beeping at a normal, healthy place. An older man, who'd been nothing more than a vague blur in the background, moved forward and held the girl's hand. He shuddered when his eyes drifted over the corpse of the 'heart donor', but he firmed his chin as he stared into his sleeping beauty's face. His eyes held the look of horror of a man who knew that he'd doomed his own soul, but agreed it was an acceptable price. He kept his eyes on the face of the sleeping girl and ignored all the living corpses in his steel mausoleum. _

_--Entry from Sam Winchester's dream journal_

Police stations generally take great care to store their records in a safe place. Hard copies are placed in secure areas under lock and key and guard; electronic copies are protected by firewalls that it takes a true hacker to break. A year or two earlier and I'd have slipped into the police station and taken my chances with the hard copies—risky, but far more accessible than most police data-bases. But, in addition to learning to use my powers, I'd spent the past year boning up on my computer skills—something that had actually been on my to-do list since Ash's death. Bad hair or no, the man had been a genius when it came to computers, and his loss had hit us hard, especially in the research department. I knew I'd never reach Ash's level, but, with some practice and a lot of study, I'd become a pretty good hacker, if I do say so myself. Good enough that I was prepared to venture, for the first time, into the FBI's data base.

I wasn't arrogant enough to do it anywhere near our motel, of course; but it didn't take long to find a 24-hour wifi capable café on the other side of town. I bounced my signal around from location to location for a while just to be safe, then pulled up the FBI homepage. I slipped through a backdoor, quiet as a thief, and found file after file, carefully organized in an almost whimsical but completely logical manner.

The person who cared for these files was a genius, clearly Ash-level, and I was glad that I decided to wait until the wee hours of the morning to try my hand at this hack. As it was, I knew there was no way I had managed to escape detection. Maybe with a messier programmer, but not with this one. She would know the minute she glanced at the screen in the morning; in fact, she might already be alerted. The only thing that would save me from a quick trip to jail was the fact that she was probably at home, fast asleep.

How did I know the programmer was a she? I didn't, but I guessed it. Any computer programmer will tell you that programming is as much art as science, and the pattern of any programmer is as unique as the prose of any novelist, the brushstrokes of any painter. _Her_ programming was elegant, full of whimsy and fun, but completely organized and somehow feminine and flirty. I felt clumsy and oafish compared to her, and made sure to spend no more time in her system than necessary. I doubted it would take her more than an hour to track my signal to this restaurant, to figure out my IP address. But by then it would be too late; I already had what I needed.

Luckily the laptop, a gift from Caleb on my 18th birthday, would not be traceable to me. Caleb had been about as off the grid as a man could get, even as he embraced both the computer age and technology wholeheartedly. I still missed Caleb sometimes. He'd been a bit like Bobby—as gruff and hardass a hunter as they come, but ready to research and make contingency plan upon contingency plan. He'd looked like a redneck, a but he'd been one of the smartest people I'd ever met; a crafty hunter who made me and Dean look like half-assed idiots with the way we so often rushed into things. But for all his caution, it was Caleb that was dead and we were still alive. Life was just 'funny' like that.

With my hard drive full of crime-scene pictures, ME's reports, and police records, I hurried back to the motel and arrived just as Dean pulled up in the Impala. He got out of the car with only the slightest hint of a stagger and smiled at me blearily.

"Sammy! Did you get it?"

"Let's get inside before we talk about that, Dean."

I couldn't quite hide my irritation. How was it that I always seemed to do the research while Dean sat around in bars? The worst part was that I couldn't even complain about it. The truth of the matter was that, when it came to the supernatural, the rumors bandied around bars, when people were drunk enough to forget they don't believe in that kind of thing, are often as useful as anything we learn from the police. The things that slip under the official radar, like local legends and ghost stories, are more accurate than most people will ever realize. Not to mention that Dean tended to double task at bars, finding out the gossip and hustling pool or poker, keeping our meager cash funds flowing. I hustled pool occasionally, but without the fervor or skill that Dean had. I honestly felt bad about not bringing in more cash, like a kept man, but I just wasn't as good at gambling as Dean and our lifestyle left little room for more legitimate enterprises.

"Sure thing, Sammy!" I worried sometimes about Dean going out to hustle by himself—it didn't happen often, but occasionally he got caught hustling and then there was the inevitable bar fight—but he was a big boy, as he reminded me when I worried (usually throwing out a girl's name or two) and was actually pretty good at making sure he didn't get more than a pleasant buzz.

Our overpriced little motel room was actually a good bit nicer than the ones we usually rented. The linens were newer, brighter, better material; the wall painted a non-offensive pale green; the television in good condition. But it was still the same general size and layout as any other, and I couldn't help but think about how much more money we could have saved in a smaller, quainter town, a crumbier motel. Money had never been a huge Winchester concern, but with the FBI in town Dean and I didn't feel safe using one of our poached credit cards. Frankly, I never really felt good about using them—the money Dean hustled may not have been honest money, but at least it was ours, and cash. The credit cards left a trail and eventually someone could catch on to it.

"So—did it work? Didja get it?" Dean was friendly and happy and just a little slurry. His breath smelled of beer and corn chips, but his smile was charming and bright and his eyes looked incredibly green. I wondered if he'd indulged himself with a waitress before heading back to the motel room, but didn't detect the tell-tale scent of sex.

"Yes—the whole thing. It worked. But I'm glad I took precautions. The FBI will know someone hacked the database first thing tomorrow."

"Aw, I thought you were better than that."

"Jeez, Dean, the FBI doesn't exactly hire slobs for their tech department, especially not the techs who deal with high-profile cases. This person whose files I cracked—I think she could have given Ash a run for his money."

"A chick? Is she cute?" Dean leered.

"I…I don't know. I'm not even sure it's a chick. Her programming just looked feminine," I replied, embarrassed. Dean didn't disappoint me.

"You geek! You have a crush on some computer programmer for the FBI because her 'programming looks feminine'. Ha! Dude, you've been spending waaayy too much time on that thing," Dean joked, pointing at the laptop.

"Shuddup," I murmured. I turned away from Dean to set the laptop up and pull up my purloined files. "What did you find out?"

"Well, word on the street is that it's a serial killer. Or vampires. Or gangs. Or government agents masquerading as vampire gangs (somebody _seriously_ needs to lay of the X-files)."

"So nothing, then."

"Not quite. There was one story I hadn't heard before that was interesting. A group of college kids were talking about 'Dr. Death'. Apparently there's some big symposium or something where there are some medical experts from all over the world visiting to teach for a semester. Some kind of 'learn about alternative medicines thing'. Anyway, rumor has it that one of these doctors is behind the murders. They say he's performing secret experiments on the victims, so that's why he needs their blood. Of course, he can't go around kidnapping people himself, so he has his 'minions' do if for him. No one is sure who the minions are, but apparently they're creepy as hell. Able to move around without being seen and violent as all get out—evil ninjas or something. They say that people have seen a vague shape in a doctor's coat opening the doors to the medical department basement for men and women carrying 'long, human-shaped bundles' in the dead of night, but no one knows where they go."

"Okay, creepy."

"The thing that struck me is that the first victim disappeared about a week after the semester started, when all the visiting doctors finally arrived. And the autopsy report on Jane did say that her organs were surgically removed. Sounds like the work of a doctor."

"A mysterious shape in a doctor's coat….why does that sound so familiar?"

"You heard this story before?"

"I'm not sure. But its definitely worth checking out. It should be easy enough to find out if there _are_ doctors visiting from other countries and when they arrived. We can start on that in the morning. I didn't have a chance to really look at the FBI files earlier—lets give them a little look-see now."

"Okey-dokey," Dean replied with a cheesy grin. Then he tilted over and passed out on the bed. Apparently Dean was much drunker than he appeared—not a common problem with him, but it happened. Dean usually held his liquor very well (much better than me, anyway), so I wondered how much he had really had. With a martyred sigh, I plopped Dean's legs up onto the bed, took off his boots, and loosely tucked the covers around him. He gave a strange sigh and relaxed like a marionette with its strings cut. I frowned in consternation, perplexed by his behavior. Even passed out drunk, Dean never relaxed so much.

All of the sudden I began to feel rather loopy and light-headed myself. The room seemed to spin and grow hot, the air was wet, heavy cotton pressing on my throat. My eyes got blurry and I stumbled over to my own bed. I sat heavily on the cool sheets and drifted, enjoying the peaceful euphoria that crept over my limbs down to my fingers and toes. The air left my lungs in a rush and I realized that I'd fallen back onto my bed. Then I knew no more.

My dreams that night were bad, but did not involve visions. Or, at least, I didn't think they did. There was a vague sense of being watched, touched, and coveted— in the creepiest possible way. The feeling that something dark and cold and brooding was standing right over me, and I was helpless to react.

The next morning I woke up to nausea and the sound of Dean puking, which did nothing to help. And then there was the headache—the blinding bright pain that pierced my skull like the fangs of a snake crushing a hapless mouse. Luckily I was becoming used to headaches, so often the side-effects of my visions. Zachariah had not been able to help me too much with the visions, but had some advice that helped. Mostly, it involved meditating, relaxing, and a dream journal.

Zachariah explained to me that the pain I was feeling was because my mind was resisting the visions. The human brain, so much blood and tissue, was not designed to think in a non-linear manner. That was why humans perceived time as a straight line—first one event happens, then another follows, then another. Time itself was not linear; it was more like a sphere. The timeline we perceived was like a horizon—it looked flat and 2-dimensional, but was truly cyclical and constant. I may no longer have been human myself, but my brain functioned like that of any human, with chemical and electrical signals rushing from one neuron to the next as the result of internal and external stimuli. My power to see through time—not just the future, but also the present and the past—was angelic in nature, and too much for my fleshy brain to easily handle. The pain I felt was a result of my mind perceiving too much for my brain to comprehend. Zachariah hypothesized that my second sight worked much the same; what I actually saw was whatever was really there, and my poor, overworked brain just interpreted the signals in a way that made sense to me. Other seers would interpret the signals in a way that made sense to them—different images, or auras.

Meditating did not help me necessarily _control_ the visions, but it did help me to relax my brain and recover from the impact. When I felt the first stirrings of the pain that proceeded the visions, I would calm down and try to 'center' myself—which is actually a far more complex process than it sounded like, and required daily practice so that I could find my center quickly if need be (for which Dean made endless fun of me). Rather than trying to interpret all the millions of unexpected signals at once, my brain could just experience them. The visions would take place at a slower pace and were actually much easier to understand that way. It didn't stop the pain or the visions, but it did significantly lessen the aftereffects and damage.

The daily meditation helped me to control the emotions that the visions brought about as well. Human emotion, like thought, is highly dependent on the brain. There is a reciprocal process that links biology and perception: when people perceive that they are experiencing an emotion, chemicals are released into the body to stimulate the physiological reactions that come hand in hand with that emotion; alternatively, when humans experience physiological reactions to external stimuli, their brain interprets the reaction as an emotion. Which comes first, the physiological reaction or the emotional perception, is a chicken-egg question. The point, however, is that when I had my visions, my brain was bombarded not only with images, but with chemicals, including those linked to emotions—serotonin, dopamine, epinephrine—and I experienced those emotions as fully as if I were experiencing the events that lead up to them; not to mention the perceptual emotions that accompanied having to see horrific events. The chemicals did not leave my brain quickly; they would linger around like uninvited houseguests and leave me moody and irritable. The mediation helped to clean them out.

My dream journal served much the same function. I had even less control over my dream visions than my waking visions, but at the same time, because my brain was more relaxed in sleep, I experienced less pain and resistance than I did during my waking visions. The meditation helped to organize my brain so that each vision presented as a more cohesive whole than as a jumble of images, and my nightmare-visions became less painful and made more sense. Writing them down served to help organize the thoughts, memories, and emotions as well. Sometimes I would recall details that may have helped with a hunt, and hopefully would soon. In fact, I hoped one day to be able to choose what I would see; Zachariah said it was possible, but that it would take a great deal of time to train my brain that way. The dream journal would help eventually, but for now it was more of a way to purge myself so that the visions did not feel so internal. It was difficult, but I had to learn to separate my own thoughts and sense of self from the visions I so vividly experienced.

I knew that Dean wanted to read my journal badly. It killed him that he could not help me with my visions any more than to make sure I had time to meditate (which he did religiously, even as he teased me). He wanted to share my pain, felt that he could absorb some of it over our bond, and I honestly considered it, but couldn't bring myself to put that on him; not yet anyway. Somehow it felt too personal—which was, honestly, ridiculous considering how close we were these days.

"Dude—did you see the bus that hit me?" Dean grumbled as he wandered out of the bathroom looking whiskery, mussed up, and cranky.

"No, man, but I felt it." In fact, I had felt it all too clearly over our connection. That was why I'd passed out the night before; that was why I was sick now. Because _Dean_ passed out, because _Dean _was sick. This was the first time Dean had been ill since our bond had formed. It sucked. Royally. Like, _seriously_ sucked. But I to wander how much Dean really _felt_ my headaches when I had visions. He hadn't said anything; but, then, he wouldn't.

"What happened? I only had a few."

"It feels like more than a few. Man, I felt weird last night." I rubbed my head, still muzzy and confused by the dull ache left behind. I'd never had a hangover quite like this—were all Dean's hangovers this…dizzy?

"I don't even remember getting here." Dean sat heavily on the bed. That woke me up quickly. I'd only ever seen Dean actually get drunk enough to pass out once or twice, and he knew when he was getting drunk. For him to drive the Impala that intoxicated was unthinkable. Not to mention he'd only seemed slightly tipsy up until he passed out. Then it dawned on me.

"You got roofied!" It made perfect sense. Someone must have tried to drug him right before he left the bar. Between being in good shape and his Nephilic constitution, he must have been able to resist the drug for a time, but eventually fell prey to it. It all made sense; the sudden dizziness, the loss of consciousness and memory, the lingering, cotton-wrapped confusion. Someone slipped my brother a date-rape drug. I didn't know whether to laugh at him or mother hen him. It didn't help that I'd felt the effects of the drug nearly as vividly as he.

"No. No way. Really, you think?" Dean said.

"Yeah, I think."

"Man, I hope it was a chick." Scary thought—particularly in a town visited by 'Dr. Death'. What if the roofie had been an attempt to get Dean alone and vulnerable for more than prurient reasons? I remembered the feeling of being watched I'd had in my dreams and shuddered.

"What is it?" Dean asked quickly.

"Huh?"

"That reaction—that was more than the idea of me being felt up by a dude. You know something—spill." Sharp-eyed and -tongued, he would accept no put-offs.

"Just a bad feeling," I murmured—I really didn't have anything more concrete than that to give him.

"With you, bad feelings are premonitions. Besides, something else is going on in that freaky brain of yours."

"I was just thinking—what if that's how the killer subdues his victims? By drugging them. Remember, some of the victims were athletic men, they wouldn't necessarily be easy to control. You may have run into the killer last night Dean."

"That is_ freaking_ creepy. So I might be chained up right now being tortured if I'd waited to leave another 10 minutes? Fuck! That is seriously screwed up."

"But you're the right age and physical type. It's possible. You're gonna have to be careful."

"You, too, ya know. 'Right age and physical type' is a pretty broad spectrum here. And you know that you're the one that draws trouble like flies. I just draw the ladies."

"Dean! This is serious!"

"I know, I know—don't get your panties in a twist, princess," Dean mocked briefly before becoming serious. "We're both gonna have to take serious precautions. Salt, wards, the whole shebang. We'll have to plan like this is a human killer, too, so we stick together or to public places and we keep an eye out."

Dean stood up and walked over to the table where my laptop had been unceremoniously dumped the night before and pulled it out. He glanced at me over his shoulder and gave me his wry grin.

"So—did you find anything out last night? Did I?"

Turned out that since Dean had actually taken the drug, he'd experienced the full effects—he couldn't remember anything for hours before or after. I was luckier; I'd had some of the effects, by my memory was not affected. Which was _damn_ lucky, because when you threw in the possible use of drugs to subdue victims, Dr. Death was sounding more and more likely. I quickly related the story he'd told me the night before and booted up my computer. Before long we were pouring through the crime scene data.

It was…horrific. And coming from me, that's saying something. Horror has been common place in my life since I was 6 months old. There had been thirteen bodies in 15 weeks and all with signs of torture. Eight men, 7 women; 7 White, 4 Black, 2 Hispanic. Their ages ranged from 19 to 32 and they were different builds, different looks. Nine of the 13 had not yet been identified; of those that had, there were 2 college students from out of state, a construction worker, and a tourist. The only thing the people had had in common was that they'd been young, healthy, and attractive (probably—it was hard to tell with some of the remains).

Marks on wrists and ankles clearly showed that they had been restrained for some time, and that they had struggled with their restraints. There were cuts and bruises all along the bodies, some methodical, creating abstract patterns; others random and indiscriminately vicious. The ME's report indicated that all of the victims had signs of brutal, repeated rape. They'd also had organs removed, though the details differed. Some'd had only one or two organs removed; the heart, the lungs, liver. Others had been gutted. The removal had been smooth, precise, mechanical—a huge contrast to the brutality of the torture. And then there were the bite marks.

At least six different individual sets of teeth-marks were found on each body, biting deep enough into tender tissue to remove chunks, like a swarm of frenzied sharks. The bite marks tended to accumulate on the softer areas—the breasts, stomach, inner arms and thighs. And the genitals. The genitals of both the men and women were missing, but had not been surgically removed—they'd been gnawed off. The lingering nausea from Dean's adventure combined with that little tidbit nearly sent me over the edge and I had to breath shallowly for a moment to keep from puking. It did not help that the medical examiner believed that the attacks had occurred pre-, peri-, _and_ post-mortem. The victims' last days had been nothing but one unending bout of torture that continued on long after they'd grown cold.

It turns out I was probably right about the drugs. Tox screens on hair showed that all of the victims had been drugged recently. However, the drug itself was not one the chemists were familiar with and they had little to work with—there wasn't enough blood left in the bodies for them to do a full tox panel. The blood itself, much like the organs, appeared to have been removed with cool efficiency, leaving veins and arteries largely intact. Only a needle mark on the neck gave away the killer's preferred method of exsanguination. It was a large needle mark, like the ones used by funeral homes to drain the body of fluid. With a still-beating heart it would have taken only minutes to pump that precious liquid out through the jugular, leaving the body cold, brittle, dry. Dead. With the amount of damage done to the body it was impossible to tell the exact cause of death, but the medical examiner theorized that it was the loss of blood itself that proved fatal. The torture that went on concurrent to the exsanguination would only made death that much quicker, as fear-induced adrenaline sped up the heart and the process.

The mark Dean and I had found on the inside of Jane's lip was present on every one of the victims. The police had noted it, but did not know what to make of it. It was so familiar, I knew I'd seen it before. But I'd seen so many symbols and sigils throughout my life, recognizing just one was hard work. I'd have to do some research to identify the mark. To see if Dean and I were dealing with a pack of Satanists, a group of crazies, or something else all together.

Being a hunter is not as different from being a college student as you might think. The subject's weird, but on an ideal case 90 of the work was research and preparation, just like for any school project. Research methods differed; I always seemed to end up digging through library archives and Dean preferred to question people face-to-face. But research, none-the-less, was the backbone of the work we did. Today Dean would have to deal with the library; neither of us were running around alone on this one and identifying that sigil was our first priority.

We packed our things and prepared to leave, but found another unpleasant surprise. Our door was not locked. We'd passed out before we'd had the chance to set up any protections and had been vulnerable to attack; hell, as incapacitated as we'd been, a 10-year-old could have taken us. I remembered my fuzzy-muzzy dream again and shared a dark look with Dean.

It took us nearly two hours at the library to find anything on the sigil (I kept waiting for the librarian to make the sign of the cross at us with the looks she gave our repeated trips to the occult section), but when we hit paydirt, we hit paydirt. I _had_ seen the sigil before—at Bobby's. The scruffy demonologist had books on how to contact, control, and recognize the signs of major demons. And the demon who this sigil was connected to _was _a major demon; Asmodeus.

The bad thing about people not believing in the supernatural was that they were not prepared for it, and treated those of us who did believe like lunatics. The good thing was that they were much less likely to worship demons and demigods if they believed they were so much nonsense. Still, every now and then a demon-worshipping cult_ did_ pop up. Asmodeus was one of the more popular demons to worship; probably because he was the demon of lust. People who worship demons are generally big on lust. He's also supposed to be the demon of gambling, another big plus for people looking for cheap thrills. And that's what most demonic cults were these days. People tired of living by society's morals who thought that paying lip-service to some demon or the other was a unique way of justifying a descent into decadence, drug use, and group sex (they're wrong, by the way; its trite and tired and usually corny). Most of that type were only dangerous to themselves, as they filled their veins with sweet poison and their bodies with lust-coated disease. But then there were the true believers.

As fervent as any fanatic, true demon-worshippers gutted their own desires and hearts and minds in order to give themselves over to duty; to their master. They were as self-sacrificing as any suicide bomber, as loveless as any hidden gunman, as bloodthirsty as any crusader or inquisitor. Those were the dangerous people; people who truly managed to connect to some evil supernatural creature that would grant them favors or powers in return for their worship. These cults were the ones you heard about in scary stories, the ones the FBI would say didn't really exist. They were the cults that would drink babies' blood and have orgies under the full moon, who danced with snakes and mated with goats and indulged in every corruption and taboo they could imagine. By giving in and violating the strongest of the norms imprinted upon them by society they became truly devoted to their cause because they'd gone to far to ever go back. Say, like chewing off a person's genitals. Yes, a demonic cult fit the case all too well. And the sheer perversity of their crimes suggested that they had managed to find favor with some evil supernatural something, whether it was truly the demon Asmodeus or a mere opportunistic something else.

This was bad news all around. We couldn't pack up and leave and expect the FBI to handle it; whatever it was these people were connected with, the FBI would _not _be able to handle it. But the cultists were still _people_, unlikely to disappear in a puff of smoke or slime or leave behind conveniently inhuman corpses. Not to mention that some of them could possibly be saved. Maybe. We couldn't just kill them off, particularly not with the FBI in town. Prison was where they belonged, but we'd have to deal with the demon or whatever first, and try and let the FBI deal with the humans. If the demon wasn't dealt with, then it was unlikely that prison would hold the cultists; even if we managed to deal with Asmodeus, his followers would continue to present a danger because chances were good they would, at some point, figure out how to contact something else. Things always got so messy when humans were involved.

* * *

And that's this chapter. I know it's a little shorter than usual, but I felt like there was a lot of information packed into this chapter that I should stop here. Hopefully the next chapter will be up before too long.

Stonesherrie: hmm—can't say yet; don't want to spoil it J

Hindsight2020: considering a Dresden Files crossover to deal with the sword thing.

101mizzpoet101: I'm glad you like!

Guest: I think your theory may be right…

So, I'm getting ready to post, wondering why I didn't get any reviews about the last chapter, and I realize the last chapter didn't post! I put it up weeks ago, and never realized that it didn't stay up. Arg! Well, now you get two chapters at once and I feel better about not getting reviewed on that chapter.

Did anybody recognize the second crossover? I'm borrowing Dr. Muraki from Yami No Matsuei (aka Descendents of Darkness). The manga version, not the anime version. You don't need to be familiar with it to get this story, though. I'm not going to say too much about him. Want the story to a mystery, after all.

If you're wondering, there will be more BAU in the next chapter. Did you like my descriptions of Reid and Hotch last chapter? What do you think the rest of the team will look like to Sam?


	16. The Hammer: Where It'll End

The Hammer: Where It'll End

_I'll Take A Life  
That Others May Live  
Oh That's Just The Way It Goes  
Shut My Eyes  
It Hammers In My Head  
Where It'll End  
Nobody Knows  
--Hammerhead by The Offspring_

_The boy was small and thin, all big green eyes and dark blonde hair. Just 13 years old, he wore an elegant kimono that made him look more a china doll than a teenage boy. He walked cautiously out into the cool night air, looked around guiltily. He wasn't supposed to be here, out in the small, well-groomed park. He wasn't supposed to be out in public, where people could see his parent's secret shame. But he could only spend so long hiding in his luxurious basement prison-room. He wanted to taste freedom, if only for a moment, and night was his best chance. At night, there was less of a chance a villager would see him, less of a chance his parents would find out about his secret sojourn. _

_It was early spring and the breeze picked up the sweet scent of the blossoming sakura flowers. The park looked magical and somehow untamed under the moon, and for a time the boy played like wild creature—until the crickets stopped chirping and the night birds stopped singing. The world took on a thick, sickly sweet pink tone as the moon turned rose-red and suddenly the scent of sakura was cloying. He took a cautious step forward and looked around. There, under the largest sakura tree! It was a man._

_The man was tall and broad-shouldered. He had pale hair and wore white, and the red moon filtered him bloody. He stood with his back to the moon, and the boy could not see his face. He stared at the man in shock—why was he here? Then the boy's eyes trailed down the long body to the huddled mass at the man's feet. A corpse. The man was burying a dismembered body. A woman whose face caught the moonlight and reflected a rictus look of horror, frozen by death; eyes so wide the full ring of the iris was visible, mouth stretched open in a never-ending silent scream. _

_The boy wanted to scream, wanted to run, but his breath caught in his throat and, like a wild animal, he froze in fear; in that illogical, desperate hope that if he did not move, the predator would not see him. _

_Night turned into nightmare as the man grabbed the boy. He stripped the small body of its kimono and pulled out a small, deadly-sharp scalpel. The man cut into the boy again and again and again, small, delicate cuts that left a sinuous, strange, oddly beautiful pattern all over the small, frail body. The boy squirmed and squealed in fright and indignant pain, the sound of a child who had never before felt true pain. The man loomed over the boy like a fair-tale monster, a deadly beast with no human compassion. The boy's shrieks shattered the night and the bloody moon watched grimly. _

_--Entry from Sam Winchester's dream journal_

I like to think that Dean's aversion to 'normal' is a personality quirk, but the truth is that what Dean_ really_ dislikes is hypocrisy. When he sees a pretty house with a white-picket fence, he sees people who are willfully blind to the things going on in the world around them, whether it be the supernatural, or even just the purely human suffering that goes on every day. He sees people who place their own comfort and convenience above the welfare of others, especially if those others are far away and hidden. He sees people so caught up in the game of school-work-taxes that they don't even realize that it _is_ a game; that reality exists beyond the edges of the every-day. To Dean, that life represents the ultimate lie because it promises what it cannot deliver; the promise that draws so many people to it, that drew me to it for so long—it promises safety. It promises certainty; be this, do this, and this is what will happen. No surprises, no monsters, no demons. And Dean is right, it is a lie. Even the people who live that life never have that true degree of certainty that is advertised; they experience a hundred different heartaches, a thousand different betrayals, and they do it with a smile because they are terrified to admit that they aren't the Stepford-perfect person they seem to be.

Dean's distrust of 'normal' isn't too hard to fathom. Normal betrayed him. You see, he had normal for four glorious years of happiness, back when he was young enough that normal was pretty much everything it was supposed to be—baseball games and ice cream and hugs that smelled like Mom's perfume. Then Azazel came and ripped normal away like a cheap Halloween costume made of nylon and glitter. After that, he never trusted normal again.

My four years of normal came much later, at Stanford. There's a sort of balance there, I suppose, that we both had four years of normal. Too bad they weren't at the same time. My 'normal' at Stanford probably doesn't really count though; normality is more than just going through the motions, it's a state of being. Since I was 8 years old, there never was a time when I heard of a murder or a disappearance or an animal attack and didn't immediately start going through my mental encyclopedia of monsters. I may have played the part of normal, but once you know what's out there, you can't just un-know. Willful blindness isn't true blindness at all; its play pretend. In my heart I never fit in, even with Jess.

At the time I thought that didn't matter. That as long as no one else knew what I really thought, what I really feared at night, I could live in normal. I could pretend to be stressed about exams instead of worried about the serial killer on the news that sounded all-too-much like a spring-heeled jack. Now, though, I recognized that things never would have worked out. I could have lived the life, fooled my friends and co-workers, but everything I had with Jess, every relationship, would have been built on a lie. Not lies about my past, but lies about who I was at the core of me. As long as I kept my secrets, Jess could never really know me. As much as I loved her, I didn't trust her with my deepest secrets, my darkest self, and that would have eventually destroyed us. I wonder if acknowledging the fact that my love affair with 'normal' was doomed from the start represents maturity or cynicism on my part?

I was thinking about normal because I found myself, for the first time in quite a while, passing myself off as a college student. Honestly, I was getting too old to pass as an undergrad, so a graduate student I must be. Dean said that my glasses and too-long hair helped me look the part. The messy chestnut locks just seemed to keep growing and growing and I had gotten tired of cutting them. By now they reached below my shoulders in the back, and I found it easier and cheaper to invest in hair-bands than getting a haircut every two weeks. The shorter pieces that used to be my bangs fell around my face, but the hair-band helped tame the rest into a short pony-tail. Dean, unwilling to grow his hair out, had invested in a set of clippers, but I wasn't willing to let him give me a military-short cut. I liked to think that I wasn't a particularly vain person, but my ears and short hair just didn't mix well.

I moved through the college crowd easily, but no longer with the blithe abandon and sense of belonging I once had. The kids that I once would have wanted to talk to, to fit in with, seemed shallow. Not just the frat boys and sorority girls working on their M.R.S. degrees, but the hard working kids on the fast track to grad school, too. As much as they may have focused on the intellectual, they still ignored the dark truth that hid underneath the pleasant veneer of normal. For them, thoughts of evil were academic and exstistential pursuits, not the very real-world worry they were for Dean and me. It was like suddenly realizing that I was in a foreign country. Still, I had learned to lie, and lie well, at a very young age (after I told my teacher that 'Daddy was going to teach my how to shoot a rifle' in kindergarten, the Winchester Family #1 rule was instituted (1)) and found it pretty easy to blend in. In the research triangle that wasn't very hard, as the place crawled with twenty-somethings.

Dean didn't fit in quite so well. He was the right age to pass as a grad student, but his leather jacket and bow-legged slouch were a throw-back to the romantic bad-boy anti-heroes of the fifties, rather than the abstracted rambling of a person who spent most of their time in their own mind. He stood out among the trendy digital-age kids in a way my baggy, post-grunge-intellectual look didn't. However, he walked with confidence and swagger that told the world he belonged anywhere he wanted to be, a swagger that usually worked. Any looks he got were more likely to lead to hook-ups than difficult questions.

And he did get those looks—he still hadn't learned to tone down whatever it was that people were picking up from us. Neither had I, for that matter, but ever since we were kids Dean always stood out more than me. We used different defense mechanisms, you see; Dean was the kid that everyone wanted to be or be with, the fearless bad-boy with the charm and luck of a tough tom cat, and I was the kid that faded into the background. Dean was all movement, like if he smiled fast enough, moved fast enough, no one would ever catch him. I was silence and stillness, hoping that I wouldn't be noticed in the first place. I'm not sure if I chose that mechanism in the beginning or not; if somehow Dean convinced me to be the quiet one, so that he could be distraction, the mother-bird playing broken wing so that the snake never noticed the nest. These days I didn't mind the role. If no one noticed me, then I could be Dean's backup if he needed it.

We were walking through the campus of the local medical college investigating the lead Dean had picked up. Whoever this "Dr. Death" was, he was the central problem. His minions, followers, devotees, or whatever, they probably didn't really know anything. It was usually the leader, the papa-smurf figure (2), that held to keys whatever ritual was needed to summon the demon or demigod this type of cult worshipped. After all, people who were into human sacrifice and demon worship rarely trusted others. They were ambitious and cold and manipulative; sharing knowledge was sharing power, and power was all they loved. Their followers were just that; followers, minions, extras, who could be rounded up and sent to prison (or, you know, an institute for the criminally _insane_), but the leader had to be stopped. His knowledge made him too dangerous for the authorities to safely handle. So said Bobby, anyway, and since he had much more experience with demonic cults than Dean and I, we trusted his advice.

The problem with that was the fact that there were about 100 visiting doctors from all over the world and any one of them could be our guy. So could any number of students who went to the local med and pre-med schools or who were visiting from miles around this semester. Dean and I may have been able to walk around the campus without arousing too much suspicious, but neither of us knew enough about medicine to pass as medical students. What we knew was more practical than anything else; we could probably put in stitches as well as any of the actual students (and probably most of the doctors), but discussing bacteria and diseases and medical conditions was beyond us. So there would be no sneaking into class, no "we're your students, don't your recognize us?" (which really only ever worked in survey classes). Luckily, we arrived just in time for an open forum symposium on ethics. We could blend in much more easily there because the forum was open to anyone who wanted to attend. The majority of people there would be med students, but students from other majors would also be attending in droves, if only for the extra credit many professors promised.

Yes, luck was on our side in that we were able to attend the forum—but that didn't stop Dean from bitching when it took us all of 2 minutes to realize that the forum would be mind-numbingly, unabashedly _boring_. You see, the thing many people don't realize about college professors is that they are not trained to teach. Primary and high school teachers have to get degrees that focus mainly on methods of teaching, but college professors have to have Ph.D.'s in their fields. Most have no training whatsoever in teaching. Sometimes that's a good thing, when professors focus on the subject and avoid gimmicks (not to mention that they actually _know_ their subject very well, always a plus). Sometimes it's a bad thing, when professors don't have the first clue how to teach other than to stand at the front of the class and recite text-book dry factoids. Today it seemed to be a bad thing. Most of the speakers made absolutely no attempt to make their speeches more lively or interesting for the audience. It might not have been so bad if they had dumbed their lectures down a bit, but they were clearly speaking for a med-school level audience; anyone without at least a couple of years training in medical jargon was quickly lost, including Dean and me.

An hour into the lecture we had no leads and Dean was having an increasingly difficult time staying awake. I had it a bit easier than he did—pre-law had just as many ethics classes as pre-med, and I was familiar with _some_ of the concepts being discussed. Honestly, legalese was as bad as medical jargon, but at least I understood it. Dean may have had a finely tuned sense of morality, but morality and ethics weren't the same thing, not from an academic perspective. Not that it mattered if Dean stayed awake or not—we really weren't learning anything pertinent to the case. It's not like Dr. Death was going to have Asmodeus's sigil tattooed across his forehead, after all. It would have been nice, though.

We slipped from the lecture hall disheartened and tired. Listening to a boring lecture is surprisingly exhausting, as I had learned in college. Dean was especially tired, as he had fidgeted like an antsy grade-schooler through the droning; it had been a long time since he'd actually gone to class and he wasn't prepared to play the good student (not that he ever really had). Real students loitered in the hallway, flirting and getting water and generally avoiding the lecture without actually leaving the extra-credit opportunity behind. Dean immediately focused on a group of young women giggling in a corner, pretty and innocent looking. I rolled my eyes and glanced out the window. There was a church across the street, and I longed to escape the crowded confines of the lecture building. I'd been around too many people that day, too many Echoes. Even with the glasses I kept catching glimpses of them out the corner of my eye, ghostly afterimages that I couldn't quite see. It was maddening, and I was nervous and jumpy.

"I'm headed across the street."

"Dude," Dean argued "we agreed to stick together on this one."

"I know, but I'm not likely to be attacked in broad day light—or by demon-worshippers in a church."

Dean gave me an irritated, worried look and sent a pulse of warning down our bond, but a few minutes later I entered the cool confines of the church and let out a sigh of relief. As I'd told Dean, I was sure I would be safe in a church. It only took moments for me to learn that those were famous last words.

* * *

I woke up some time later in a dark, cold little room. It felt like it should be damp, covered in moss and decay, but was surprisingly clean. Simple white walls, a locked metal door, and two small bunks were all that the room held—that and another man. The young FBI agent we'd seen in the morgue, Reid.

I was laying on one of the bunks, my legs dangling off the end (it was far too short for me), and he was curled up on the other in a defensive, pained little ball. Reid was still unconscious, but he moved and whimpered piteously in his sleep. I reached up and pulled down my glasses, drawn to see his Echo by the same dark instinct that made people rubber-neck when they passed wrecks. I knew it would be bad, but I had to see it. I had to know.

His Echo was different when he was asleep. He no longer flickered between the boy and the 18-year-old manling, but was stable and looked to be about his actual age. But that barbed wire was still there, winding around him and digging further into his skin. His arms were crossed over his chest and he tugged painfully at the wire, pulling it tighter as if it were a security blanket. Bruises were scattered around his face and his eyes were sunken and dark. The Echo had a starveling look to it, brittle and breakable, and the wire seemed more solid. I shuddered.

He just looked so lost. That was why I tried something I had no reason to think would work; that's why I reached across the small space separating the bunks and grasped the barbed wire that I had every reason to expect to be insubstantial as air. It wasn't; it was as solid as real wire would have been, but warm and squirming as a living thing. I grimaced and grasped the wire tightly before gently pulling it from his hand. (2)

The agent must have been drugged, because he didn't so much as twitch as I slowly and laboriously pulled the wire from his Echo. It took a long time because I was doing my best not to damage the Echo any more than it already was, but that wasn't always possible. The sharp tines of the wire dug deep into the Echo's skin in places and tore it as the wire was removed. In the end the Echo was bleeding from dozens of small wounds—but even as I watched its ashen skin began to take on the rosy bloom of health and the wounds began to clot. I threw the wire away like a poisonous snake, and it hit the cement floor with a metallic twang before crumbling into rusty powder and fading away.

A slow clap-clap-clapping caught my attention, and I realized that Reid and I were no longer alone. I had been so focused on my task I hadn't heard the metal door open, hadn't felt myself break into a cold sweat. I was exhausted; apparently touching the Echo had taken more out of me than I expected. And this was huge; I could _touch_ people's souls. Who knew what I had just done to the young FBI agent? I had removed the barbed wire by instinct, but who knew if I'd harmed him in some indefinable way?

I turned my head toward the door and saw a figure all in white. Tall and broad-shouldered and _cloaked in shadow, every detail hidden save a vague outline. It circled the boy in the tube like a moth circling a flame, fascinated by its destroyer; hunched over the girl, carefully making an incision into the delicate skin between her small breasts; cut into the boy again and again and again. _I'd seen this figure before, dreamed him in nightmare visions, but never before gotten a clear glimpse.

He was tall, about 6'5", and broad-shouldered—I knew that already. But he was also pale—so pale that my first thought was that he must be an albino. His skin was the color of glazed china and his hair a pale silver that fell fashionably over his right eye; his left eye was a cold grey. His features were sharp and fine, with narrowed Asian eyes and thin sensual lips. He was handsome and distant and cold, a marble statue made to be worshipped, but there was a cruelty to his charming smile.

"I'm impressed." His voice was deep and cultured, with just a bit of a lilt that hinted at an Oxford education.

"You…you saw that?" To anyone without the sight, it should have looked like I was just waving my hands over the sleeping agent, nothing 'impressive'.

"Oh, yes. I'm not like you—no natural Sight. But I can attune my vision to see the spirit world, which leaves me with a pale imitation of what _you _actually see. I've never seen anything that could touch a human soul directly before, other than Hellhounds. I knew you were rare when I took you, little Nephilim, but not how rare."

"You know what I am." I stood to face the man.

"Oh, yes. I sensed it the moment you walked in that church. After all, our kind have an affinity for one another."

"Our kind?"

"Come, Samuel. You are far too smart to play dumb. Didn't you feel it when we met?"

I had felt something when I walked into the small church with the pretty stained-glass windows. I'd seen the man kneeling as if in prayer. He stood up in front of the altar and turned, silhouetted in dramatic fashion by the light shining through the altar window, and I'd felt a connection. I still felt it, faint, far fainter than the confusion and anxiety I felt from Dean.

"You know my name; what's yours?"

"My students call me Muraki Sensei, but you; well, you're practically family. You can call me Kazutaka."

"Family!? Being the same species does _not_ make us family." I _had_ family, real family. I wasn't interested in his half-assed brand.

"Oh, that's where you're wrong. We half-breeds are alike; born of sin and damnation, abominations that defy God's laws. No matter how good we try to be, we are stained with our parents'—or our ancestor's—sins. For at some point, whether our immediate parents or our long-dead ancestors, an angel fell and that fall resulted in our creation. For us, even living is sinful, our blood-stained souls can never be redeemed. We are the descendents of darkness (3)."

"No! You're wrong!"

"Am I?" He said coolly, amused at my response.

"You_ are_ wrong. What we do now, who we are—it matters! It matters so much, and you can't shrug off the responsibility for your actions by claiming to be born damned."

"Is that what you think I'm doing? No, Samuel, I know exactly who I am and what I do. I don't expect forgiveness or even understanding—nor do I seek them. You mistake my statement of fact for fatalism; the truth is, I do not seek redemption. The game that men play where they sin, and beg forgiveness, and try to live by an impossible standard of morality—or by standards that are possible, but take all enjoyment out of life—has never interested me. I revel in what I am because it has given me opportunities mere man will never have; long life, intelligence, beauty—and power that men can only dream of."

"What do you want from me?" I was deeply disturbed to be the prisoner of a man who openly stated that he had no use for morals.

"Everything," he replied with a cold little smile; "Everything."

* * *

When I was taken by Muraki, Dean felt it. In fact, he collapsed rather dramatically in the middle of the lobby in front of several witnesses. He woke up quickly enough to avoid being taken to the hospital, but nearly panicked when he realized that the reason he'd woken up was because our bond was being blocked. He was no longer affected by whatever it was Muraki used to subdue me, but could only faintly sense me. It was so faint that he could not tell where I was or what was happening to me, only that I was alive.

It was not the first (or second, or third) time I'd been kidnapped, but it _was _the first time Dean and I had been truly separated since I found him in Hell. He found it maddening, like a missing limb you can still feel. And he knew that I'd been taken by the killer, knew that I was possibly being tortured even then. Our jobs require us to know as much as we can about the monsters we chase, the things they do, but sometimes that knowledge is a burden, and never more so than when someone you love is at the monster's mercy.

Thankfully Dean has always handled pressure well. He did the smart thing—he called Bobby for help when he found the little church empty. Bobby was quick to respond to Dean's plea for help, but he didn't come alone. He brought with him former FBI agent Jason Gideon.

Gideon was a stocky man in his late forties with a kind scholar's face and a soothing voice. For most of his adult life he'd worked to get inside the minds of monsters of the human variety, and had been one of the founding members of the FBI's BAU, Behavioral Analysis Unit. He'd stuck with it through tough times and even a psychotic break he'd managed to come back from, but every man has his breaking point. Gideon quit the BAU when a serial killer he'd hunted had, in turn, hunted him and killed his girlfriend. Later that same killer had committed suicide, but not before convincing a mentally unstable woman to join him.

Unable to face anymore sociopaths, Gideon had gone on a long journey with no intended destination, crossing the country in a rambling attempt to find himself. What he'd found instead was a string of strange deaths that he was, at first, certain were the work of a serial killer. Though he had wanted to run away, he'd been unable to turn his back on the innocent people who would be put at risk, and began to research the killings. He'd found a strange coincidence—all of the murders took place on the night of the full moon. Gideon had figured out just enough to put himself in real danger, and probably would have been the werewolf's next victim if Bobby hadn't already been wise to the hunt. As it was, even the most scientifically cynical mind cannot refute the existence of werewolves when it sees one turn right in front of it—when that same werewolf tries to eat it. Gideon was very, very lucky.

Gideon's quick mind sucked up everything he could find on the supernatural like a sponge and he and Bobby quickly became friends. Gideon found a freedom in hunting the supernatural; supernatural creatures can be every bit as gruesome and cruel as a human psychopath, but there was none of the need to find humanity in the inhumane when it was truly _not human_. And, despite himself, Gideon could not leave the hunter inside behind.

Gideon would prove very useful on the current case, not because of his abilities as a hunter (bright or not, he was still new to the supernatural), but for his knowledge of the FBI, particularly the team working the case. The BAU's current team, save for one, had been hand picked and trained by Gideon; the other had been his colleague for years. Once he and Bobby arrived in town (in record speed), he called his old boss up.

"Hey, Hotch," Gideon said into the phone in a jovial tone.

"Yeah, I've seen it on the news. I'm actually in town, passing through. I was wondering if you need any help…" Dean gritted his teeth as the other man chatted like Dean's brother, his whole world, wasn't in the hands of a sadistic cult.

"Well, if you change your mind, call me. Good luck."

"That's it!?" Dean exploded. "Call me if you change your mind? We need to know what they know! We need to find Sam."

"Now, Dean, I know you're worried about your brother," Gideon replied in an irritatingly soothing tone of voice, "but I need you to calm down and listen to me. That was just first contact. Hotch is the head of the BAU, he can't work with an unauthorized consultant, even me. But the other members of the team…" Gideon let his voice trail off as his phone range insistently.

"Hello? Morgan—I thought you might call. Yeah, I know, I've seen the news, it's bad…What? That can't…how…uh-huh. Yeah, send me the info, I'll call you back." Gideon's peaceful, soothing expression was shattered.

"You're brother isn't the only one they took—one of the agents is missing. Dr. Reid."

"Skinny kid, talks like a walking text-book?"

Gideon looked startled "How…"

"We saw him at the morgue when we went to go check out the latest victim. He and that other guy, Hotch, came to check out the vic, too."

"How'd you wiggle out of that one?" Bobby asked.

"We hid in an empty office."

"Boy, one day your luck will run out." Bobby said shaking his head ruefully.

"That was Derrick Morgan on the phone. He's sending me an encrypted e-mail of the profile. They're being extra precautious because someone's already hacked the FBI mainframe looking for info on the case…" Gideon's voice trailed off as Dean's face took on an all-too-innocent expression. "You?"

"Sam. He's been practicing his hacking skills."

"Damn! Didn't know the boy was getting so good." Bobby said with an odd kind of pride in his voice.

"Yeah…always knew he was too smart."

"How smart is he?" Gideon asked in a strange tone.

"Um…not sure what you're asking?"

"Reid is…special. He's the youngest member of the BAU, with the most credentials. He's a genius—literally."

"Well I don't know if Sam is what you'd call a genius, but he did manage to get a full ride to Stanford, and his brain is like an encyclopedia of the weird and supernatural."

"I wonder if that's the connection between the victims. Maybe they were all brighter than average, or exceptional in some way."

"How does that help us?"

"If we know what the killer is looking for, we know more about the killer. The more we know about the killer, the faster we find him—or them."

"Gideon…"

"Look, Dean, I know that you and your brother are two of the best hunters out there. But right now we're hunting my specialty—humans."

* * *

(1) "We do what we do and we shut up about it." That always seemed like an oh-shit rule to me—as in "Oh, shit! What did Sammy tell his teacher?!" I really would like to hear the story behind it 

(2) Totally stole that from Scooby Doo.

(3) Stole the barbed wire thing from The Dresden Files, but didn't realize it until after I wrote it! Still, it's not used exactly the same way, and it kind of fits since I'm taking my second sight from TDF.

(4) For those of you not familiar with Yami no Matsuei (aka Descendents of Darkness), it revolves around a Shinigami (basically a reaper) named Tsuzuki. Muraki is not the only villain in the piece, but he is the main villain and Tsuzuki's personal stalker (I made Sam his victim because he reminds me of Tsuzuki and seemed likely to whet Muraki's interest). Yami no Matsuei was never completed, and so there are many questions that are left unanswered, but it was hinted that Tsuzuki was born an abomination of some kind. In the manga, Shinigami are the souls of dead humans who are allowed to have the chance to continue existing very similarly to who they were (as opposed to being born again) on the condition that they work for the Ministry of Death. The books indicate that even before he died, however, Tsuzuki was unusual—he spent 8 years in a vegetative state wherein he refused to eat or drink and only came out of the state every now and then to slit his own wrist. Yet he survived without aging all that time. Many fans have theorized that Tsuzuki's powers come from his father, who may have been a demon. Muraki's past is equally mysterious. He clearly remembers his parents, but his father was not the most faithful creature. Muraki's young life fell apart following the introduction of his bastard half brother Saki, who eventually killed his parents and tried to kill Muraki. More than once during the manga Muraki managed to survive situations that no human, no matter how powerful, should be able to survive, hinting that he was getting supernatural help from someone. He was a powerful wizard himself and even managed to break into the Ministry of Death to kidnap Tsuzuki at one point. Some fans have theorized that he had some kind of pact with a demon. At one point in the manga Muraki gives Tsuzuki a little speech talking about how they both come from evil, how they are descendents of darkness. And hence the connection to the dialogue here. Ta da!

And that's the end of this chapter. Sorry it took so long, but it was a hard one to write. Got bogged down in the middle there. Next chapter—LimpSam! and Protective!Dean. Mmm. My favorite flavor of Winchester.

I did want to warn you, though, I'm starting another fanfic and I'll be rotating chapters (a chapter of Watchers, a chapter of Maleficence, a chapter of Watchers…). It'll be a _Covenant _fanfic, slash (caleb/pogue) with a strong focus on Pogue. If you're not familiar with _The Covenant_, it's a pretty cool movie that came out in 2006 about a group of teenage boys who happen to be witches—the born with power kind, not the chanting and sacrificing things kind. And they're super-hot. On the swim team. In tiny little swim-suits. And in the shower. If you like Supernatural (duh!), then I recommend the movie—you can see it on YouTube if you don't mind watching it in parts, or buy it from Amazon direct-download for about $10. Done plugging my next fanfic. I'll try to keep things moving along, but I just haven't seen that many good Pogue fics in the fandom, so I feel compelled to write one!

**Hindsight 2020**: Not sure about Sam overcoming the sight. The going blind thing is years down the road, so I won't really address it in this fic. I was thinking, after I get through the bulk of Watchers (maybe 1 more story after The Hammer), I might write an epilogue set in the far-future (Firefly xover!), so I might address it there. But I was thinking Sam might be cool as one of those blind guys you think will be helpless, but he's so used to being blind that he can pretty much kick ass anyway. Still haven't decided… "although Dean comes across as the aggressive brother, Iv always found that when pushed into a corner, it's Sam that is the most violent, esp. when Dean is threatened". I totally agree. That's why I gave Sam mostly passive powers—he can't handle it when he gets aggressive, it really messes him up. But can he fight with his newfound ability? I am actually going somewhere with that whole thing. "mayhap Sam can do with a power that doesn't send him to his knees?" As Sam learns to use the powers he has, he will be less affected by them and become more versatile in their uses.

**Spooker**: Sorry for the wait! Unfortunately, this probably doesn't help with the suspense! Will try to make up for it with a cool next chapter.

**101mizzpoet101**: I'm glad you like! That bond will become more important in the next chapter and the following story, too. I really love the relationship between the brothers, so I wanted to play that up.

**Carocali**: You've asked some very good questions! "What would actually happen if this doctor got a hold of one of them? Would they die? Can they die? Would that excite him even further that he'd have an unending supply of organs and blood?" Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until the next chapter to find out the answers! Still, I'm glad you're thinking along the lines I'm thinking. I honestly haven't done that much research—mostly just looked on Wikipedia. Love Wikipedia, you can just find the neatest stuff there. "the whole thing sounds VERY Sam like in the logic and plan" I'm so glad! I really identify with Sam—we're the same age, younger siblings, kind of intellectuals, a little bit whiny at times. Its one reason I decided to write from his POV; but I've been worried that it sounds more like me than him at times. Glad it still sounds like him! As for the crossovers, it might be hard to find Descendents of Darkness, but Criminal Minds comes on Wed at 9 on ABC, if you're interested.

**Nyx Wings**: I wish I could take credit for the dreams in The Hammer, but I'm actually just describing scenes from Descendents of Darkness. But they were pretty freaky. I'm glad you like the part about them resting up, and the introspection. I'm a little worried I spend too much time on exposition, but it really helps me get into Sam's head and the story—and I just enjoy describing things!. As I told Hindsight 2020, the blindness thing is years down the road, so I won't address it unless I write an epilogue (Firefly crossover!). But never worry, if he does go blind, he'll still kick ass!

**kirallie**: "Hope they can avoid the FBI." Guess not! The real question is, how will they get out of it? Will they get out of it? You'll have to wait and find out! "Did someone/something really follow Dean back to the room? You'd think with no longer being human they'd have a higher tolerance/immunity to drugs. Nit good that you can drug both by drugging one." Yeah, that whole roofie thing was a total impulse. But then I liked it so well, I left it in. I think it's important that every strength—like their bond—can also be a weakness, and visa versa. As for whether they were followed or not—addressed in the next chapter!


End file.
